Mosaic
by Larry Huss
Summary: Beginnings are delicate things; suppose Lucius Malfoy had been a little short of money...
1. Skiptrace

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Mosaic: Chapter 1: Skip-Trace

By Larry Huss

Wednesday, Nov 11, 1981

Lucius Malfoy contemplated his last few years as he dragged a cut-throat razor over his cheeks. 'Thank God that's over!' he thought as he rinsed the blade, and then scooped up some warm water and did the same to his face and neck. He reached his hand out to his personal House-Elf, who placed the warmed towel in it, and dried himself. He_ could_ have had the Elf shave him, but people that became so dependent on the creatures often also became a little weird, giving them livery and calling them pet names. Far better to keep a decent distance between the races, and not become a slave to your own servants. In any case it was hard to truly trust the mind of one of them. House-Elves were essential both quite mad, and almost invulnerable. Tell them to correct a minor mistake, and they went and punished themselves by driving forks in their eyes (not that they wouldn't heal!). They were no more capable of real pain or injury than an animated cartoon. Lord, how he used to laugh at those mutilations, flayings, and incinerations he had seen so often as a child on the Muggle Tele-viewer Father had rigged up at the edge of the property, where it could work!

Cologne on and properly dressed, he went to breakfast, and then to the Library, where the past two week's worth of newspapers were stacked up neatly. House-Elves were good for things like that at least. Narcissa had gone back up to the Nursery, to supervise the nanny and coo over little Draco. Their one and only hostage to fortune, unless some generous donations to St. Mungo's would be able to help them find a way to correct the damage that bungling Midwife had done at his birth. Lucius had wanted Narcissa to go to one of the premier Muggle hospitals for her delivery, with a goodly supply of useful potions available in case of need, of course. His contacts in that world allowed him to know where they had advanced beyond current Wizardly capability. But Narcissa was a Black, andthey_ would _always remain stuck at least two centuries in the past, no matter what the situation.

A breech-delivery shouldn't have caused so much damage to the mother… _shouldn't_ have. Later he had hunted the bitch down in her twee cottage in the Forest of Dean, and killed her slowly. It didn't help Narcissa any, though. And the organs of generation were too intrinsically magical to respond well to the current state of the art in magical healing. Spilt milk, spilt tears, spilt blood. No reason now to cry about it now.

Lucius ruffled through the pile to his favorite issue; he'd have it saved in an album for the future. At least two hundred and fifty column-inches on Voldemort's death, the tragic scene at the Potter Home, and all the twaddle about the child. An enterprising reporter had managed to get through the Auror applied wards and get into the place, taking pictures herself, as well as stealing one off the mantelpiece of the happy little trio: Mother, Father, and Child. The art department at the **Prophet** had thoughtfully added a little lightning-bolt shaped scar to the Boy's forehead, in accordance with old Dumbledore's description. Irritating arse!

What spell had Voldemort used to ensnare them all, all the mighty Pure Blood Wizards and Witches? Lucius remembered being willing to risk anything for the man. True, the Cause was good, pure and clean… at least at first. But as the years went on it began to generate poisoned fruits, and all those brave Knights had turned to slaughtering Death Eaters; Lucius didn't exempt himself from succumbing. Certainly once he had allowed himself to commit the first _observed_ atrocity normal blackmail gave Voldemort a hold on him. But _all _of themsliding so easily into being such obedient puppets? Lucius made a note on the pad he had on the lamp-table next to his chair: "research spells for resistance, mental control." He hadn't been Imperiused, but so many of his actions, his willing abasements, suggested that_ something_ had been done to him.

Odd; while the information on when the Potter internment would take place was in its normal location in the paper, there was no information on where the child would be placed. Dumbledore was quoted as saying it was being taken care of, but what standing did _he_ have in all of this? It was a family matter, or else something for the Ministry to decide. If there was a dispute the Wizengamot would take it up, but otherwise… what was Dumbledore in all this? Not even the vaguest mention of the terms of the will was there, not even when it would be read. Odd, odd indeed. Have to ask old Crabby to look into that. More notes went down onto the pad: "Potter child settlement? Will, will, who's got the will?"

Ruffling through the next day's paper Lucius came across the Black story. Fancy little Sirius being the agent inside! He'd always played at being such a dedicated rebel against his family, masterful how he have been gotten to after his sorting, the Hat would have caught him otherwise and kept him from being a Gryff. Gotten to… Lucius picked up his quill and underlined his first note. Then added: "Avoid Black trial panel." Cissy was so very soft on family; it would never do to sentence one of her cousins to Azkaban if he could help it. Especially since the bloke had actually been in the same mess as Lucius had been; all in all a joke too cruel to join in.

He picked up today's paper and slowly and carefully read it. Yes! Buried in a back page was Bagnold's list of those cleared of accusations of criminality; the Malfoy name buried deeply in the middle of it. Now that was the best 250,000 Galleon investment he had ever made! Though adding that sum in to the constant contributions he had been so unprotesting in making to Voldemort's war-chest had left the Malfoy cash reserves, always larger in myth than reality, more than a touch low. Another note: "Money, where's more money?"

Wednesday the next

'Odd,' thought Lucius Malfoy as sat down after breakfast for his reading of the early edition of **The Daily Prophet**. There had been no mention of when Sirius Black would be brought up for trial (and inevitable sentencing), nor had Malfoy himself received any documents to attend a session with that accused. Now back in Society's good graces, Lucius knew that he should have gotten one. He'd have ducked out of it, of course. Still very odd; after all, justice delayed is justice denied. The Lestranges had been tried and sentenced (with gruesome and detailed boasting about their deeds), while Lucius had practiced staying hidden in the back of the chamber, ready to bolt if there had seemed that anything they would say would cause the case against him to re-open. Crouch Jr. had been tried… in fact a fair selection of the craziest and poorest of the old bunch had been swiftly sent off to enjoy the cold comforts of Azkaban. But Sirius Black's name had never been mentioned at any of the brief hearings.

Odder still was that at the end of the story there was a tabulation of the convicted and their sentences. Black's name was there, all right. Life without hope of release. For that to be printed in the day's paper Black should have been brought in for one of the sessions that Lucius knew he had attended, sessions that Black certainly hadn't been mentioned. Aside from it being a shame that Black hadn't been given the Kiss of Death from the Dementors, something else felt wrong about this. If Black had died, Cissy should have gotten something useful from the estate (as the Black Family was getting quite thin on the ground), which would be very helpful in avoiding having to sell some income producing properties to deal with their slight… cash flow problem.

Lucius supposed that he must jaunt down to the Ministry this morning and check things out. If there were irregularities in the trial, and he pointed it out, he might be able to get a family-rate loan from Black. If not, he could start sniffing around to see if there was anyone there who could help make that "Life without hope of release" sentence for Black into one a good deal shorter than the three or four years life expectancy that Azkaban supplied in its rougher sections. Lucius needed money now, or at the worst within the next two months. Justice (or Mercy, one way or the other) would be served! And it had better be pretty damn quickly if it was going to help the Malfoy family.

Crabbe had come up blank on the Potter will and Potter boy front. While he was in Town, Lucius decided he would use some of his less prestigious contacts and resolve those questions also. There was no reason not to have more than one iron on the fire.

Wednesday, Nov 25, 1981

"So, if I may be candid, and act as one family member talking to another, with all directness and honesty; unless you agree to my terms you will rot in here for the rest of your undoubtedly short life. There is no one who will answer your pleas or letters of supplication. Not the least because you aren't allowed to get any messages to the outside world.

"Your few surviving friends are scattered, broken. Ah, I see from your face you haven't heard about the Longbottoms. Any that remain are of too little influence to do you a bit of good, even if they thought you innocent. Which they do _not_. If you believe that Albus Dumbledore will save you; well, I've been to a number of sessions of the Wizengamot, and not heard a word from its Chief in that regard. So, agree or spend the rest of your life here."

Black shook his shaggy head and gave an embarrassed whimper of a laugh. Sad to think that this little interview with Malfoy was the best time he'd had in the last few weeks. The courtesies of Azkaban; when one of the rare visitors was admitted to see an inmate the Dementors were kept away from those corridors of the pile. For the first time in weeks Sirius Black didn't feel as if sharp toothed little vermin were trying to burrow their way under his skin. The package from Cousin Cissy wasn't half bad, either. Black didn't mind that he had been told that a much larger one, filled with food, drink, and candy had already been delivered to Bellatrix Lestrange; it was only right that sisters look after each other.

"What about Harry; James and Lily's kid?" Black asked.

"Rather mysteriously dropped out of sight, actually. Unless Dumbledore is lying and the coffins of the Potter family contain three, rather than two. I have a trustworthy Muggle attempting to find him."

At Black's incredulous look Malfoy smirked. "No one does finer work in metal than a Goblin, venomous little beasts though they are. I don't deny that Muggles have their uses, and that we should use them. The trouble with all those Liberals and Reformers is… not the discussion we should be having now. Young Potter has disappeared from the Wizarding world of Great Britain. He is either dead, transported far away, disguised, or hidden.

"If he's dead, no one can do much for him. I seriously doubt that the man last known to have his hands on the child, Dumbledore, would let him get to where he couldn't keep a close eye on him. Disguises are all fine enough, but a thorough one can be very expensive of time and magic over the long term, so Dumbledore, or a close ally, would have to be in constant attendance. After all, the child is a mere infant, and as such prone to bursts of accidental magic that could disrupt any magical disguise.

"Hidden, or hidden and disguised, is the way to bet if you think he's alive. Either with great amounts of detectible magic disguising him if he is in the Magical world, or else Muggle-disguised, and in the Muggle world. I could be wrong, and do have some friends looking for him in various Magical corners and nooks, but currently I pin my hopes on someone being too clever by half.

"And after all, back to the main reason for my coming to this detestable place, Black. It's only half of something you'll never get to use otherwise in any case." Lucius gave himself a mental pat on the back; he'd almost called the man Sirius. Given his hot temper that would have probably set him off in some sort of time wasting rant.

For a moment Malfoy watched Black wolf down some of Cadbury's products in a most disrespectful and gluttonous manner. Then, at Black's gesture, he gave him quill and parchment. The prisoner feverishly wrote some corrections to the terms, and then told Malfoy to have a proper document drawn up by a professional, and to get back for the signing as quickly as he could.

After getting a guard to get him out of the cell, and escort him to the one Bella was in, Lucius glanced at Black's emendations to the agreement. Interesting, even generous in a way. In some parts a reversal of what Lucius had proposed, but still… it would serve.

After letting him into Bella's cell, the warder gave him the key to unlock her bindings, and made sure he passed it out, un-copied, before he left them alone. Lucius understood completely the man's reasons. Bella look horrible, and horrifying. She'd got her back to a cell wall, and looked at him with a suspicious and feral expression. Lucius went to the package that had been deposited there earlier, opened it, and took a box of cherry cordial truffles out. He advanced toward her, holding it out like a man offering a steak to a hungry lion.

"Hello Bella; Narcissa remembered how much you always liked these."

Tuesday, Dec 8, 1981

The offices of Robert Strongen were clean, tastefully furnished in the most modern office style, and conducive to the exchanges of confidences. When Lucius Malfoy dealt with Muggles he saw no reason to risk his results by dealing with any but the best, and these tended to be those who could afford a workplace that didn't make their clients want to destroy their garments and take a sterilizing bath after a meeting.

Robert Strongen was somewhat out of place in his own office. Though well enough dressed, his face, hair, and posture were those of a weary and defeated man, one who you would work hard at not to notice. That way you could avoid having to deal with the thought that you, too, might end up a failure. He made a pretty penny from his despondent looks, and the way people would be excessively cooperative just to get his sad mug out of their sight. His ability as an investigator supplied the rest of the reasons for his success.

For clients of Mr. Malfoy's standing, Strongen handled the cases himself, and did the reports.

"As you expected, the Potter leads faded out pretty quickly. The Evans string was viable though. The grandparents are dead, but we were able to trace a sister to Little Whinging, married name Petunia Dursley. We've checked newspapers, Registry, and neighbors back in her old home, and then both traced her by her husband's job, and when she started appearing in the auto and telephone registries as being in her new town. Her prints match those on file for Petunia Dursley nee Evans.

"Her new neighbors confirm that she had a kid a bit over a year ago, and recently started to show up now and then with another that looks nothing like her first one. About the same age, or a little younger. Don't call the sprout by name, though. Usually just "freak" or something like that. Not a proper motherly attitude, though it's not my part to criticize.

"Someone who just moved in…" Strongen flipped through some pages on a wire-bound notebook, "Mrs. Arabella Figg; referred to the new boy as Harry. Why she should know, and not the people Dursley hobnobbed with, is a bit unclear. I was posing as someone who was interested in moving into the area, and didn't want too much racket from children. Cat lady type, though with the oddest looking cats.

"Without getting a proper set of footprints I can't guarantee the identity of the child. If you want to do this indirectly I could put a word in the ear of someone from Child Services, who could get up the Dursleys' noses proper. They would have to provide positive ID to the government, but since you mentioned doing this with a light touch I've held off until you give the OK. Here's a photo of the kids in the yard; the light-haired one is Dudley Dursley, three confirms on that. The dark haired one is either 'Freak', last name unknown. Or, it's most likely your Harry Potter."

Malfoy handed over the check for £10,000 (Galleons 2,000) and accepted the manila folder with all the information Strongen had gathered, and all the photos. From previous experience, the investigator knew that when he dealt with Mr. Malfoy no copies were to be left behind when the final check was passed over. It was a slightly unusual way to work, but when a client pays a premium rate you tend to give him some extra consideration. This case would enable Strongen to engage in his favorite pastime for some time; the hunting of blonds in their early twenties. Which accounted for why there was no Mrs. Strongen; even if he had married one of his early catches, by now she would only be a blonde in her early forties, and so an entirely different creature from those he was interested in.

If it wasn't such a un-Malfoy sort of thing to do, Lucius would have been whistling as he went down to the Ministry for his latest trip to Azkaban. He stopped only to pick up three packages Narcissa had ordered from Fortnum and Mason. One package for Black, one for Bella, and one heavy on the wine for the guards, to bribe them to let Bella out of her chains long enough each day to eat something from the one she had received. Little touches and remembrances like these were part of the reason that Narcissa was such an asset for his political career.

His business at Azkaban was quickly concluded. Black had carefully read the document; evidently some of his famous impetuous nature had been cured by even his short stay in that outlier of hell. He had signed, a small smile flitting over his face, and the only awkwardness had been when he had inquired about the child. Lucius had answered honestly (if incompletely) that none of his friends' diligent searching in Magical Britain had turned up any lead, or any indication that Potter had officially left the country.

It was too bad poisoning Black was so risky, but it would have been too easy to prove that the death was un-natural, and that would have held the estate up for who knows how long. This document in Malfoy's pocket was more sure, and potentially more valuable. He would explain it all to Cissy when he got home. For now, he had to endure the ordeal that was Bellatrix.

Later that evening

Narcissa Malfoy, all silver and ivory in a deep blue dress, gently played with the smiling child sitting in her lap. He gurgled contentedly.

"So, my darling; Sirius has signed an agreement to adopt Draco as his heir, resign as head of the House of Black, and agree to our adopting Draco back? All the entailed properties become Draco's, with us getting trusteeship during his childhood, as well as a good lump of money. All Sirius gets is the rest of the money, some minor properties, help on clearing up some custody question, and a Boon later in life?"

"Well, my dear, "Lucius replied, "He also gets his day in court. I have no idea what he expects will come of it but a trip back to the Island, but he insisted. And since he _is_ your family, I really felt that he was entitled to that last request. At a proper trial there is a very good chance of the Kiss for him, but after all, that would be a mercy. You're lucky you're too psychically sensitive to stand getting that near the Dementors. After two trips there, even with them being herded out of the way, I can assure you that I damn well wish _I _was able to beg off."

Narcissa was well content. Draco wasn't being fidgety, Lucius and she had done something for the Family, Draco would eventually be able to redeem the Black family reputation, and much of their money troubles would be taken care of. Now to put her little darling to bed, conduct those dreary Occlumency exercises Lucius had been insisting on lately, and then on to the fun part of the evening!

Thursday, Jan 7, 1982

Lucius Malfoy left the court chamber shaking his head. Black had actually been innocent! Some Pettifog (a younger denizen of Hogwarts that he had barely noticed when Lucius had been there himself) had been their man on the inside. And Lucius had thought that _he _had been in on the know! Well, the document Black had signed back in Azkaban was undoubtedly legal, and the fifteen year leases he had let out on the entailed properties on Draco's behalf had more than handled the cash flow problem for the present.

Thinking of it calmly, the stink he had had to make to get Black his trial now made him a well known advocate for justice. Black's acquittal actually should make Lucius' own getting off from prosecution look far better; it might well put those (accurate) bribery rumors to rest. What was that expression? Ah, doing _well _by doing _good_. There was still a bit of a problem to face, though.

Try as he might, Lucius had not been able to find #4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging. Or any of its inhabitants. He finally appreciated what Muggles had to put up when they ran into an area filled with Muggle-aversion charms. While he had always seemed to just end up turned around the wrong way on the street, Crabbe and Goyle had trouble staying in the same neighborhood. They kept on wandering further and further away from the area of the search until they nearly reached the town limits. Lucius put it down to the advancement he had made in his Occlumency training. The disciplined mind was a great protection. Or it could have been that of the three only Malfoy was truly indifferent to the boy's fate; the others were still resentful of how the Great Campaign had gone, and the boy's part in that. Lucius had never found a way to break it to them that Voldemort had made too many promises to too many people, and that when he had taken over, the people he was most likely to think expendable were those who had already proven they were capable of fighting hard and dirty to get what they wanted. The clock-punchers and the by-the-rules types were easy to rule over, once you got to make the rules. It was the revolutionaries who really believed in the cause who were potential rivals and opposition.

'Oh dear, here comes Black now,' Malfoy thought to himself. 'I just have to let him know, roughly, where the little sprog is, not that I've been trying to get him for myself, or why.'

"Black! Good to see those old fogies saw reason. You've got to come to Narcissa's celebratory dinner; she's having it for you Sunday night. Everyone important will be there; you can party with your friends, and snub your enemies. And there are certain files that I feel that I have to, in all good conscience, turn over to you."

"Ah, Lucius, old classmate, I wouldn't think of missing it, especially if Cissy still makes those canapés herself. She does? Yes, I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Black's smile had been too broad, his heartiness too pronounced. It was likely that the forthcoming little family party (with others) would be one for the ages. Lucius wasn't certain whether it was going to be better to hire a dozen off-duty Aurors to provide security and keep a lid on things…

… Or would it be worthwhile to sell the publication rights for the story to come to the highest bidder.

Sunday, Jan 10, 1982

As the last of their dinner guests used the Floo to get home before the witching hour struck, Lucius Malfoy idly wondered how many of the half-sozzled ones would end up in strange and unusual destinations. There were rumors, unverified but perennial, that sometimes fireplaces, officially disconnected, were accessible to the drunk and magically powerful. How else to explain the Father Christmas so many Muggles claimed to have seen late of a Yuletide night? Alas, those Malfoy wished to be stranded in furthest No-Where were those who rationed their strong drink. Still, the party had been every bit as amusing as he had hoped.

Black had raked that bluenose Crouch over the coals for not caring whether he sent the innocent to Azkaban, so long as he fulfilled his quota of victims. That had led to a fine screaming match, and the only thing that could have improved it would have been for Black to have brought up the Death Eater son. Too bad Cousin Sirius retained a bit too much decency to rub the salt into that wound!

But the sweetest part of the entertainment had been Black leading Dumbledore, once the leader of a little band of vigilantes, item by item and piece by piece, over why he had abandoned one of his own, without even the decency of an investigation, or even just making sure that a fair trial had been held.

Each of Dumbledore's responses had been weak, and the grandfatherly voice and assurance had quickly disappeared as the after-dinner drinks were knocked back. Black, getting more intoxicated by the moment, had pressed harder and harder. Dumbledore, embarrassed and ashamed of his failures and his evasions of his duties, gave replies in an increasingly weaker voice, and with a pitiful lack of firmness. He expected to be forgiven; but even just visiting Azkaban Lucius knew that anyone who allowed you to go there when he could have legally stopped the proceedings had done something unforgivable by merely human mercy.

The ultimate delight was when Black had cornered the old man, and demanded… as young Potter's Godfather, and an executor of the Potter's will… to have access to the child. Also to be told by the Head of the Wizengamot why the will, a copy held by the Headmaster of Hogwarts, had not had a date for its reading posted. At that Dumbledore had ran to the fireplace, grabbed far too much Floo Powder, and fled the scene without another word but "Hogwarts Headmaster's study." By the time Black had gotten himself pointed in the right direction, and had his feet unentangled, Dumbledore had turned off the connection at his end. Resulting in Black's light singeing, to the general merriment. Even he was laughing at that now, after two more Firewhiskies.

Interesting though, the bit about Dumbledore having a copy of the Potter will, and not having it given even a preliminary reading after two months. Mister Leader of the Light was evidently hiding something, besides (it seemed) the boy. And he was soon going to be to be pinned like a butterfly to a card, unless he picked his game up.

Tuesday, March 2, 1982

Lucius Malfoy, Lord Malfoy, looked out the bow window of his study down onto a small brick-enclosed garden, where Draco Malfoy, Lord Black, toddled around under the careful eye of his nanny. Now that the last of the Death Eater trials were over there was little else of excitement in the Wizarding World, at least in the opinion of Lord Malfoy. Little had changed in the last few months, and little more was known in regard to the puzzles Malfoy had set himself.

It was true that even Crabbe and Goyle were becoming more capable of analytic thought about their last few years of obsession. But, except for his own studies of Occlumency, Malfoy had found nothing new that would preserve his unfettered will if some other would-be Dark Lord discovered Voldemort's mind-control tricks. Currently Lucius was going through the library he had shipped over from Draco's official seat, 12 Grimmauld Place, to see if the notorious Black Library had anything that was useful. There were many interesting spells, and not a few recipes for unique poisons in the books he had looked at so far, but nothing that seemed to deal with his problem.

It was encouraging, even heartwarming if you were inclined that way that way, that Sirius Black had lived up to all of his obligations in their contract promptly, setting an example that the greatest findable living hero of British Wizardry had still failed to follow. In fact, Dumbledore seemed to be abusing his offices and authority, and lying like a rug, with the speed and energy of a far younger, more obviously guilty man. Why Dumbledore was hiding what inevitably had to come out was puzzling to Lucius. The motion was coming up at the Wizengamot to unseal the will, and there were increasingly less respectful requests from Bagnold to produce the boy, and determine where he should be fostered, the Potter family being otherwise extinct. If Black was right about the Godfather bit, and no other arrangements were made in the will, he would get the child. From many a slightly barbed conversation with the man Lucius knew he was still of the Light, as they liked to term themselves with typical modesty. So why was Dumbledore not courting the man? All he had to do was actually fulfill the legal obligations that were soon to be forced on him.

Well, thanks to the rescue of the Malfoy family finances, Lucius would be informed of what was happening with the child sooner than most. Now that he could afford it he had had Strongen assign a semi-permanent watcher over the Dursleys of Privet Drive, and their little 'freak,' too. Ah, Muggles! What would he do without them? The pictures they had recently sent him of the woman, Figg, had included one of her odd "cats." A Kneazle! Figg must be Dumbledore's agent in place, and a Squib or Muggle in on the existence of magic. Lucius had never wanted to be an Auror, and now he was accumulating evidence for what could be the biggest case since the fall of Voldemort. The only thing was… when should he use it, and for what advantage?

Currently there were several of the Malfoy House-elves clearing out Grimmauld Place; it was an absolute disaster, dowdy and half-unkempt, much like its former, neglectful, mistress. On the first day the title had passed over Lucius had gone there and essentially disposed of her on the spot. While her opinions on Blood Purity were quite acceptable, she was so disagreeable in general that the only way the house could be brought up to snuff was to remove her immediately. With her went her loyal, if grotty, House-Elf. His own Elves had had to chase it off; it had been trying to lurk about and make off with some of the household artifacts. Lucius had to actually stay at the place for several hours guarding it until a professional had managed to get some time free to re-set the House Wards. Walburga's clothing and personal effects had been sent to the cottage that Narcissa had insisted he allow her to use, rent-free. Of all the family portraits, hers was the only one he hadn't had cleaned and set back on their walls. _Hers _had been the guest of honor at a little bonfire in the back garden, even if a section of the entranceway wall had needed to be repaired afterwards.

Friday, August 13, 1982

Uncomfortable in his formal robes (cooling charms had never been his forte), Lucius Malfoy saw Albus Dumbledore finally go down in defeat. From his high chair he had accepted the Wizengamot's vote, and set the next Friday for the reading of the Potter will. He had agreed that Sirius Black should be the guardian of Harry Potter unless the will, or other legal lines of responsibility, forbade it. In acknowledgment of his tardiness in dealing with his responsibilities, he had begged the indulgence of the assembled body for an old and overworked man, and fined himself G 5,000, to be added to the Hogwarts Scholarship Fund for Impoverished Students. His only excuse for keeping the child sequestered, he said, was the remaining number of former insurgents still wishing the child harm. Goyle had the good grace to look embarrassed, and muttered how much postage he had wasted on cursed Postal deliveries that were never completed.

After that, the day's labors held little excitement for Malfoy; just a bunch of actual business that had to be done, no matter the unseasonable temperature, or his own ineptitude with cooling charms. He could have asked Goyle, sitting in as his guest, for some help. But that wasn't the Malfoy way.

When the day's work was finally done he was quick off his seat, and was heading toward a bar he knew that served the real _Lowenbrau Triumphator_, when the most eccentric and irritating of his House-Elves, Dobby, scampered across a floor it should have had no business being on, and handed him a note from the Elf in charge of the ongoing clean-up of Grimmauld Place. While grime and tarnish had been banished some time ago in the house, Lucius was not going to have Draco wandering about in it until every possible trap and hidden danger had been either disarmed, or at least warded off. The note itself was simple enough.

"Found Nasty Nasty Nasty where filthy Kreacher was. Please come Master"

A three-Nasty warning. Whatever it was had the potential to be unpleasant in the greatest degree. He'd have to look into it directly. There went his quiet afternoon with Goyle, sipping a brew and listening to Bulgaria versus Flanders on the Wizarding Wireless. Why did it always have to happen to him?

Evidently it happened to him because of the sheer malignity of the Universe, for when he stepped into the Floo Network Center to head off to deal with his crisis, a young man from the branch of the Owl Post Office that dealt with forwarding material to and from the Muggle world came over and offered him a sealed note. Lucius was pleased, of course, that the fellow recognized him immediately, but the large red "Urgent" stamped on the envelope was hardly likely to be a notice that he had won a lottery. A small tip to the young courier, and Lucius retreated to a private corner to read what was inside.

It was a report from Strongen, time stamped within the last three hours.

"1-Dursley's acting odd, impromptu party.

2-Cat woman gone, also cats.

3-Primary objective not currently visible."

Something was afoot, perhaps the negligent Strongen and all his staff needed to feel what a bit of traditional Muggle-baiting felt like.

"No, no, not so fast Lucius, The report would have gotten to me sooner, if I hadn't been in Session for the last few hours. This almost feels like it was a set-up. Black was there, and grinning like a fool (only natural in his case) at Dumbledore's surrender. Dumbledore was up on the chair, in plain view. At least I was also; otherwise it might have gotten awkward. Have to go there though." Malfoy always liked talking to himself; he felt that talking to someone intelligent always helped you reach the best decisions.

In one sense his quick trip to Little Whinging was a success. He was finally able to see 4 Privet Drive, if a bit vaguely. Its inhabitants never swam into his vision, but he really hadn't expected them to, either. He went over to the house that Figg had lived in, and no search by either mundane or magical means provided any clue on where the residents had gone. There wasn't even the least lingering scent of Kneazle urine from any of the floor boards.

He would have liked to call in the Aurors, but a lack of a clearly defined crime was a bit of a difficulty. He could show them the Muggle photographs of a child, and claim it was Harry Potter, and have to explain why he had been a leading light in the effort to have Dumbledore come clean when he had known all along where the child was. That one could go either way, and Lucius knew that he was still a bit too close to the events of Halloween last to be safely known as being _that_ sneaky and _that_ cunning. A quick visit to Strongen's office confirmed that Figg had been in place that morning, and that no moving vans or the like had been in the neighborhood that day. Malfoy told the man to keep up the observation of the area for another two weeks, and then to make a final report if the boy didn't turn up.

Then it was off to see what catastrophe was waiting for him at Grimmauld Place.

Monday, August 16, 1982

Minerva McGonagall was glad that Albus had finally accepted her evaluation of the Dursleys. Better late than never, her grandmother had always said, and now Harry would be getting proper care and attention. It was a shame that the boy would have to be raised Abroad until he was old enough to come to Hogwarts, but considering how Malfoy had been sniffing around back in England it was really the only safe way to do things. It was also a shame that poor Sirius would be denied his chance to raise Harry, but there were limits to the protection Albus could give the boy if he lived in the public eye.

At least Albus' international contacts had given him a chance to know the characters of many of the prominent foreign Witches and Wizards. Minerva had spent most of her Summer Holidays with the family that had agreed to raise Harry, quietly evaluating them. She was sure that _this_ time Albus had made no mistake in his selection. Harry would flourish and do very well with the Delacour family.


	2. Safety Line

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties. Dumbledore's disgrace and dealing with it. Must Do!

Mosaic: Chapter 2: Safety Line

By Larry Huss

June 27, 1992

From the loose stone berm above the beach, the girl looked out at the sea. On the beach itself there were only two people visible: a boy and a much smaller girl. They were sprawled out on beach towels, above the high water mark, with a duffle nearby. In the distance, a few triangular sails didn't mar the emptiness of the water as much as accentuate it. The scene begged to be recorded, and she had come equipped.

But the legs of the easel wouldn't set up properly on the rounded stones, and the breeze coming in off the water would have given her problems, anyway, if she had gotten it set up. She'd have to get down on the sand below to put the thing up, and also her little, ridiculous, folding stool. She'd over-prepared, again. She was also carrying a large bag with her drawing pad and pencils, and the well stocked insulated lunch bag Mum had insisted she carry. Her cane, of course, was more in the nature of a necessity, than an option.

Despite everything she was going to do it; go down over the slope of stones and claim her section of beach. She had started the day with a victory, and wasn't going to let a silly thing like her unsteady legs, already tired from the mile or so walk to get to this place, or a simple bunch of rocks, stop her. She had finally gotten Mum not to hover over her, and let her get out on her own. If her will was strong enough to do that, she knew she couldn't be stopped.

She was perhaps a third of the way down the forty foot or so long slope when she felt her foot twist as a stone slipped on its base, which causing her thigh to put strain on her still imperfectly healed hip. She quickly bit back the little cry of pain; she had learned to do that very well. Otherwise her parents would have tried even harder to wrap her up in cotton wool to protect her from life. Her parents had to be kept ignorant of the reality of her life, or they'd never be able to get to sleep at night. Learning of her recurrent nightmares alone would do that to them.

As she stood there, neither up nor down, and blinked back her pain-tears, she heard a cheerful voice say something. It took her a moment to figure it out, but she quickly shifted her mind into translation mode, and knew it was "Can I give you a hand, Miss?"

She spoke fairly good French, at least in vocabulary and grammar, though she knew her London accent would betray her foreignness. "No… yes, it is very kind of you. Perhaps I could use a hand getting down after all."

"Well, then, hold my hand. No, give me your things first; it will make it all the more handy." He had a very nice voice, but this time it was in English, with a faint accent.

He was up to her level, and had her easel, bags, and camp stool off of her in a moment, and then was going down the slope, with stones rolling under his feet without somehow upsetting him, with all the mad abandon of a Gryffindor. And then he was back up again, at the side that needed support, and firmly braced her as they went down the stones together. His shirt was open, his chest tanned, and wiry arms strong.

At the bottom she turned to him, set her cane firmly so that she wouldn't have to lean against him and said, "Thank you ever so much for your help. I don't want to intrude on your outing; I'll just shift a bit down the beach and let you have your privacy."

He would have nothing of it. He shook his head: "How then could you share with us our lunch basket? It would be very inconvenient if you were so far off! And may I formally introduce Miss Gabrielle Delacour," he said, making a grand gesture toward the young girl he had been with. "And I am her abused servant, and older brother, Henri Delacour, and most happily your servant also."

Miss Gabrielle Delacour stuck her tongue out at her brother, while the older girl blushed at her own rudeness.

"I'm so sorry; I should have said that I'm Hermione Granger, and English, as you can tell. You've been very kind, but I wouldn't want to intrude in a family swimming party or anything."

Gabrielle, who had been poking around in the art supply bag rang out (in French), "Since Henri rescued you, you must draw a picture of me!"

Henri cut in, "Don't believe it. Gabbi is a dictator if you don't stand firm; we older and wiser folks must break her of the habit, or we'll have no peace, and the world will sink into a dark morass of tyranny!"

Hermione started to laugh: "Then I think I'll draw you instead, Henri."

"Not fair, not fair!" Gabrielle yelled and ran to attack Henri. After all, what decent young lady would attempt to assault a person who clearly needed a cane to walk, when she had a perfectly good older brother available instead?

Suddenly the boy was flat on his back, and the girl (now obviously seen as no more than five or six) was on her belly, somehow balanced on his legs, which were pointing up into the sky. She began giggling as he pumped his legs up and down a bit, before gently decanting her back onto her feet. Hermione accepted defeat and spread out her beach towel, and set up her equipment. Being alone didn't seem to offer nearly so much amusement as being near the Delacours.

Despite Henri's warning, she began her drawing with Gabrielle. She was a surprisingly good model for someone of her age (confirmed as five), and held her position long enough for Hermione to get the basics down. She was a stunningly pretty child; platinum blonde, a perfect face, and an oddly appealing golden tan. She was wearing a one piece swimsuit, very practical in design. The only odd thing was the picture on it was like some old Greek vase showing Harpies soaring near an ancient galley with a man tied to the mast. Hermione was sure she couldn't do justice to her model, and was glad when Henri called time out and suggested they pool the contents of their lunch bundles and have a varied feast.

It turned out to be a lot less varied than expected, as both meals had been made from things bought locally, but it was still satisfying. Afterwards Henri suggested a little walk, while Gabrielle said she wanted to nap before going into the water again. They agreed she would stay right there, and they could swim when Henri woke her up. "But beware, Hermione; Fleur says that Henri is a terrible flirt, he never takes advantage!"

After Hermione and Henri had gotten thirty of so yards away, Henri looked over his shoulder to his little sister: "She really doesn't know what 'taking advantage' is. In fact, I'm not sure I do, but if my big sister Fleur says so, it must be true."

Hermione laughed; to think that a girl, even one so young, thought someone would flirt with her!

They walked several hundred yards up the beach, with Henri stopping every once in a while to check on his sister behind them. After another half mile or so they turned back, with Henri insisting they walk with their feet in the water. Off came Hermione's sandals, and her trouser legs were turned up. She didn't mind that; the faint remaining scars were up higher, where her thigh bones had come through her skin. Her ankles and calves had nothing wrong or ugly about them.

Their talk, as they went back and forth past the sleeping Gabbi another half mile or so in one direction and then back again, was general and only incidentally personal. The pace was slow, and the feel of the water cooled them just enough. Hermione would have thought it somewhat romantic if she didn't know she was a horror. Wild hair and buck teeth and a not very developed body beneath her long sleeved shirt and loose-legged jeans. At least they concealed the scar traces from showing up above, or below. Her nose and jaw had healed well enough, and encouraged her to think that the other traces would be gone in a few more months.

So Henri learned she was an only child, her parents dentists, and that she was an over-enthusiastic bookworm who was summering at the warm sands of the French coast for the first time, rather than her family doing its usual zesty tour of museums and cultural monuments because a recent… incident at her ex-school that had made her ability to handle endless hard-floored corridors dubious. Her parents were splitting their vacations this year, so that she could stay longer than two weeks outdoors in a warm and sunny place while she healed.

Hermione learned, in her turn, that Henri had an older sister, brilliant and beautiful and annoyingly perfect, down to not acting like it at all, and being kind and funny. His father did something or other in some governmental department or other, and they were staying at a local cottage that had been in the family for beyond mortal memory, or at least it had been as long as he remembered it. She couldn't tell what color his eyes were, behind his tinted glasses; he wasn't any more than her height, and his wild black hair made him look like an illustration: 'Boy, on vacation.'

When they had walked down the beach enough to see other vacationers sprawled in packed confusion ahead of them Henri handed her his shirt, and told her he'd swim back, parallel to her course.

She didn't have a swimsuit on, under her clothes, so she agreed she'd have to walk back along the beach. Still, it seemed odd that after having been so friendly, and even physically supportive, he was now putting so much distance between them, especially as he could see that she was now getting tired again and limping slightly. But, her things were back with Gabrielle anyway, and so her way had to be in that direction. He swam well, and stayed even with her, perhaps thirty yards out, on the way back.

When they were back at the isolated little group of bags and towels, with Gabrielle stirring as she slowly woke up, Henri came out of the water, with the most sheepish and apologetic look on his face. When he was a foot or so away from her, he took her hand and asked, "Do you know that you are a witch?"

At that she stepped back, almost stumbling, and sat on her little camp stool.

"Yes, but only for a little while longer, and then they'll take my wand and wipe out my memories, and all I know about the magic world will be gone, and I'll be the perfect little Muggle brainiac again, instead of the most annoying know-it-all witch in Hogwarts. That's-"

"The magical school of Britain, that is up in the mountains of Scotland. Yes I know. You do not look like a desperate criminal; why would they drive you from our world? For Fleur and myself, and even little Gabbi who is listening in, are all of the magical breed. "

Hermione sat silent for a little while, putting it all straight in her head, and in French, so that Gabrielle would also understand it (though from what had gone on before it was certain that she had at least a fair comprehension of English).

"I was a First Year student at Hogwarts, and unpopular because of my looks and being an insufferable swot. There was a Troll that got into the school, and it caught me alone, because no one wanted to be near me. And… well, it was a Troll, so I was banged around a bit. Even with potions and all it was bad enough that I lost the rest of the year. My parents won't let me go back to a place like that, so unsafe. So, being Muggleborn, since I'm not going to an accredited Wizarding school, and not being tutored by a Wizard or Witch relative because I've got none, I'll be made safe and ignorant as soon as I'm all healed up. Probably at the end of the summer, I guess. Headmistress McGonagall got me that long an extension, so I could have proper, magical, healing. I guess I should be grateful, to know about magic for that much longer. I love it so. But my parents won't let me go back, and honestly, I still have nightmares about _It_ breaking in the door and then… the club, and hitting the wall and all…"

Gabbi walked over to her, looked her seriously in the eye and said, "You must become a witch, for you will never be an artist if that sketch is the best rendering of me that you can do!"

Henri bopped his sister gently on her head with his open hand: "You know what she really means though, Hermione. She's just trying to be clever. The only thing wrong with the drawing is that it neglects to add her little devil's horns and tail!

"Please, come here again tomorrow. I will talk to our Mama and she will think on things. Do not despair! Despair is folly, when boldness may bring victory! Promise me, promise me you will come. At the least we will have our next day together, at most… who knows what the light of a new dawn will show?"

Feeling the pain that only hope can bring she nodded, and then asked, "How did you know I was a witch? I haven't done a spell, and my wand is back at the place we've rented."

He gave a laugh: "Look up the beach to the left, and to the right. This entire huge stretch of beautiful sand has only us three! When we went around the curve in the coast we saw the place packed tight with people; did you think why? This stretch of sand is warded to give us privacy and safety from the un-magical. Sometimes one of them may wander through such protections… once. That is why when we had passed the limits of the spells I separated from you, so I wouldn't be giving you guidance back to here. Yet you easily passed through the veils of confusion and never faltered for an instant. Magic is in your bone and blood, Hermione, and we must see what can be done to keep you in the world you love and deserve."

It had been, Hermione decided as she lay in bed that evening, one of the best walks of her life that day.

June 28, 1992

Mrs. Apolline Delacour was tall, blonde, beautiful, and elegant. Narcissa Malfoy (whom Hermione had seen sending her little prince, Lord Black, off to Hogwarts last September) slightly resembled her, in a less warm and graceful way. Henri had gotten the short end of the family's looks, evidently. And even he was only a tick or two less than handsome. Today he had on a billed cap, and revealed he had vivid green eyes when he took his tinted glasses off to wipe his face with a cold, wet, towel.

"Hogwarts and McGonagall. You must understand, Miss Granger," the elegant lady said, "that combination is not the most popular at the moment in the Delacour household. While she has, I know, many virtues, particularly as compared to her predecessor, she is also somewhat obsessive, and is a person of excessively narrow focus at times."

"She wanted to steal Henri from us!" Gabrielle contributed.

The girl's intrusion earned her hard glances from both her mother and brother. Hermione had initially had the urge to rise and defend her ex-Headmistress, but… steal Henri? Perhaps he was an exceptional student, and McGonagall had tried to poach him for Hogwarts, instead of having him go to the French wizarding school, Beauxbatons. Odd… she didn't remember any foreign or exchange students at Hogwarts in any of the Houses or years when she had been there. Well, she had been far out of the social whirl up until Halloween, and afterwards…

Mrs. Delacour continued: "It is, of course, absurd that a witch be made to give up her magic, but I will not deceive you. We will only exert ourselves if you show yourself of some talent. Accordingly… my impetuous son, your wand!"

With that, Henri reached into the wicker lunch hamper and removed a wand, ebony in color, silver tipped at the base, and with subtle longitudinal ribs running to its blunt tip. When he handed it over to Hermione she felt a slight tingle at the moment it was in both their hands. 'Damn it,' she thought, 'I'm crushing on him.' As if her life wasn't heading toward disaster fast enough. At least he wasn't some bad-boy mistake. Instead he was more a golden-boy one.

For the next half-hour she went through the few basic charms and transfigurations she had learned at school. Her motions were rusty (no spells cast for the last eight months, after all), but she quickly began to feel the warmth and flow of the magic within her, and if the results wouldn't have garnered many points for Gryffindor at least it showed that there was the spark within her. It really didn't hurt that Gabbi was next to her, obviously rooting for her success. It didn't help that Henri, unable to take the tension, had gone out into the water up to his neck, and was looking out at the distant clouds.

She had kept up her readings in her First Year texts while lying in bed (what else did she have to do, really?), and had even gone deep into the Second Year material; in her first assault on the bookstores of Diagon Alley she had gone a bit… overboard. Reading had, as usual for her, kept her from thinking too deeply of her dismal situation and prospects. So when a long scroll with questions was pulled from Mrs. Delacour's huge straw handbag (stylish, and a suitable size to excuse anything she might put into it, or pull out in the Muggle streets), and an endless string of questions was launched, Hermione had at least an inkling of the answers to a number of the questions on Magical Theory, Potions, Astronomy, and Defense.

By the time the questions were done she was certain from the number she had no clue about that she had had gotten brain damage after all. Henri had left the water and was toweling his shivering form off, and looking anxiously at his mother. 'Yes,' Hermione decided, resisting the urge to run over and begin rubbing him down with warm, dry towels, 'crushing, heavily.' Though she hadn't been best friends, hardly even neutral acquaintances, with her dorm mates, enough information on how to handle the emotional situations developing young witches might encounter in that department had been shared and giggled over. She wondered which one to choose. She suddenly realized that living in a Muggle world her options were even wider than she had thought.

Mrs. Delacour made what could only heard as an Announcement:

"Well, Miss Granger, for a person who has had to endure both the inconvenience of prolonged illness and the _advantages_ of a Hogwarts education you seem not beyond hope. Your ability to use Henri's wand, a difficult one to master, shows firmness of will, and not inconsiderable strength and talent. If it is your wish, and not just my impractical son's fantasy, that you want to evade the rather typical fruits of the British Ministry of Magic's _justice_ I am inclined to ask my husband to help you in such ways as we might."

"Thank you, Madame, but my parents-"

"Are terrified that their daughter was nearly killed in a magical environment, and perhaps they know more than you think about their daughter's bad dreams, also? Perhaps it is so, now. But if we plan, if we prepare, if we dare to act, who knows what may be accomplished? Despair is folly, when boldness may bring victory. But first… lunch."

July 7, 1992. 3 PM

When the day after meeting Mrs. Delacour she had been invited to dinner at their cottage (sea view, and all the most modern magical amenities), she had been surprised to see her old Headmistress as another guest. It was awkward at first. At the time of her injury McGonagall hadn't offered her any hope at staying in the magical world if she wasn't prepared to return to take her first year over at Hogwarts, and hadn't seemed very heartbroken when she had gotten Hermione's parents' refusal. Though… though now that Hermione remembered it, didn't her parents say that at least the Scottish witch had found them the most reasonable rental for the location and the season that they had ever heard of? How much of the Granger family's actions this summer had been completely random chance?

It hadn't taken Hermione long to pick up that the Professor was, in fact, a well known guest at the Delacours'. Several times a year, evidently. And the not-well veiled distaste for the Headmistress that the family showed seemed to weaken, and finally disappeared over the course of the dinner, as if an old friend was finally being forgiven. If Hermione wasn't so sane and level-headed she would have immediately jumped to the conclusion that these were talking in some subtle, adult code. As things were, it took her several minutes to reach that point.

It was suspicious that McGonagall had so much information on the finer details of international magical educational certifications, and all sorts of facts relating to how the British Ministry of Magic was obligated to act in the hugely unusual event of a British resident was taking magical instruction outside of the island. It was all just a little too… prepared.

The mysterious Fleur was still absent, staying with some friends in North Africa, but the family portrait of her on the mantelpiece… unmoving as all those portrayed were still alive… showed that the female Delacours were uniformly exceptional looking. As Mr. Delacour was as short and heavy set in his picture as he was at the dinner table, it inclined Hermione to deciding that there hadn't been any flattering of the family. Oddly enough, considering the strong family resemblance among the females, except for the dark hair Henri and his father didn't seem very much alike. In fact, Henri even had different colored eyes than both his mother (and sisters) and his father.

Why did McGonagall sometimes look at Henri with a proud and almost possessive gaze? How was it that she was welcomed reluctantly here at first? How and why had the Headmistress tried to "steal" Henri? Why did it seem that this warm and intimate dinner party was as organized and predetermined as a well run vote in the Wizengamot? How in hell had Henri managed to persuade the over-protective Jean Granger into letting her only child go to dine with a family she had never met? Certainly Henri was charming, friendly, and as capable of arousing suspicion as a well-mannered puppy, but still…

When she had gone to sleep that night, after the thorough grilling she had received on getting back to their cottage well before curfew, Hermione had still not answered any of these questions. At least she hadn't had any nightmares for the last few nights; she no longer woke up feeling weak and helpless. Even if everything failed, she could hope that some faint trace of a memory would remain that would let her know that she had tried her best, and that not all of the world was always against her.

So now, a day later, they were sitting in the small garden of the place the Grangers had rented. The late afternoon sun slanted in, broken up into dappled patterns of shadow and gold. Mrs. Jean Granger was there, her daughter next to her, and her best 'business' face on. For the Delacours: the adults with Henri and Gabrielle. Cocktails were being served by the Delacours' second House Elf (the other one maintaining their main house for the summer), Marcel, in a Caribbean themed houseboy's uniform. Hermione expected to hear a bell sound any minute, and the battle begin.

The conversation was polite, and for all the fundamental disagreement between the sides there was a strong current of mutual respect. Jean Granger: unwilling to let her only child be exposed to the menaces of a world she could not enter, and in which a nine-foot tall Troll was not the greatest of menaces possible. The Delacours: persuaded by what arguments she did not know, to make it a point of honor to allow Hermione to keep the one distinction in her life that had made her feel special, and not just the odd one out.

Mr. Delacour, looking so much like the fellow who played the Belgian on the Telly, using the skills he had honed in his diplomatic position, providing arguments of reason; Jean Granger countering with an unanswerable plea from a mother's heart. Hermione felt her chances slowly fading. She focused her eyes on Henri and Gabrielle; it was all too likely that in a few short weeks at most they would be part of a past that would be completely lost to her. Henri's eyes were almost closed, his head slightly bobbing up and down. Gabrielle was coming closer to tears with every moment; the thought of someone losing her magic wasn't far different to her than hearing that someone she knew had been given a death sentence from their doctor. Slowly Henri's head stilled, his shoulders drew back, and his eyes opened completely.

"Mama, could you take Gabbi, and show her how the non-magicals live with their devices, please?"

Mrs. Delacour was startled, and Gabrielle began to protest, but Henri was firm, "Your beautiful heritage is, I think, causing tension here at the moment. And there are other things…"

Gabrielle looked back and forth from her mother's face to her brother's. They were talking like that again! She could understand Adult talk well enough (or at least fake it), but sometimes one of those conversations started up, and she was hustled off to "play like a nice child, Dear," and even when she managed to sneak into listening range what was said made no sense whatsoever. She wanted to stay, and somehow defend Hermione. The idea of a young witch being denied her magic was so obviously evil and wrong that Gabbi couldn't stand not to be there for her. But to defy Mama was so hard, especially when Henri was on her side. Papa was putty, of course, but those two were rock and steel if they thought that something had to be done.

When the two blondes had left the room Henri explained: "My mother is of Veela heritage, Grandmother having married a human. She has much of the powers of that temptress species; it pours from her without her exerting any effort. But your noticing it, even at the most unconscious level, has caused you to feel your family is threatened.

"Gabrielle is too emotional, and too young for some things. It is better she be angry at me for driving her away, than suffer from knowledge she is not yet ready to understand.

"There is no question that Hermione has magic at her center, as an essential part of her being. Without training she will continue to have episodes of 'accidental magic' that will attract the attentions of the magical authorities, no matter where she lives or how ignorant of why strange things always happen around her. And her children are most likely to be magical also, so the problems you face are most likely to crop up again in another generation in any case. How will it be dealt with then? What will Hermione think of you when she finds out that the empty part of her, that has always troubled her, is because you blocked her from becoming who she should be? You cannot protect her life by taking from her that which she lives for.

"So even if she is wiped clean of all knowledge, and is through with magic, magic will not be through with her. Every time some uncontrolled magic occurs, the memory of it will be taken, leaving a poorly covered-up hole in her mind. If enough of that happens, she will start to wonder why nothing _fits_ right in her life. Why she isn't quite in _tune_ with the world that all around her inhabit. Chemical attempts will, no doubt, be made to assist her."

"Are you saying I'll become a druggie?" Hermione broke in.

"Oh, quite a respectable one, I'm sure. With proper prescriptions legally obtained, and an endless supply of little bottles cached here and there around your home, so that there is always something close at hand when you start to see something your therapists deny can be real. And your friends will gossip about the latest pill, and how it acts so delightfully when you take it with wine." With that he turned to her mother. "Of course, Mrs. Granger, that is the least bad thing that could happen to your daughter.

"She _will be_ rich in magic, no matter if she knows it, or not. And what happens to those who have wealth, and don't know how to use it? Come, Mrs. Granger, what happens? What they cannot use wisely themselves, others take to use."

"We'll change our name. Move to someplace!" The woman protested.

Henri continued, looking at her with eyes that did everything but actually glow: "You cannot hide who she is, what she is made of. There are predators in the Magical world, and they know how to hunt. Alone, ignorant, unequipped, she will have gained no safety from a false name.

"Ignorance may be bliss, but it is won at the cost of all achievement, and even safety. The world may offer joy and security, but only if we are ready to see it as it is, and deal with it honestly on its own terms."

Jean protested, "She's not going back to that bloody place! Ten-foot Trolls all over it, while children are left to wander around unsupervised. Third floor wing that if you end up lost in you could be killed! And that's by the Headmistress's own words, right? Safest place in Britain my arse!

"Half the student body made up by the children of violent criminals that got off by connections, and who knows that they could do the same. Exploding chem labs and you hope you get the victims to the Infirmary in time that they don't swell up and burst. And she still wakes up screaming from dreams of that place half the time!"

Mum had evidently been reading very thoroughly her humorous little letters back home, Hermione realized. It had all seemed so quaint and silly when she had written them, too.

"Madame," Henri returned to the battle, "Hermione cannot be guarded from magic. The protections that serve to separate the magical and mundane world will not work for her. I have tested that, it is so. She will wander off into forbidden areas. In fact, if she is unknowing, she will even sometimes end up being drawn to them by her own perceptions and the ghosts of memories. She can only hope to be prepared for her life, not sealed off from it."

Mr. Delacour rose to his feet, and finally took on his professional stance. Endlessly manipulated (cheerfully) by his wife and daughters, in his own field he was not known as an easy man to outwit or bully.

"As to if Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain or not; that I cannot know. But here we are, after all. And Britain is not all the world, is it?"

July 7, 1992. 6PM

Hermione leaned against the front gate of her family's rented cottage. There was still plenty of light, and hours to go before dinner. She was tired, more emotionally than physically, but content.

"Henri, how much of all that stuff your father and you were spouting off… the tutoring and all… was real?"

"Oh, most. I can give you my first year books, so you can get started tomorrow, and we'll go over them together. When we're at school I'll make sure that we have time to work at least a few hours every other day or so. And I'll use the magic of little brother puppy dog eyes on Fleur to make sure she helps too, and show you the strings."

"And how much of that 'magical wolves going after little lamb Hermione' was true?"

"That? Far too much."

June 29, 1993

For the first time in over a year, Hermione Granger was getting into her own bed, in her own home. Trying to recapture all the lost time and opportunities had made the last year an unending intellectual sprint. And after her injuries were completely healed, there was often physical exhaustion. Henri was a stern taskmaster in all things, including PE.

Yet somehow she was now stronger and more vital than she had ever been in her life. Still, she sometimes wondered if she would have been able to have made up more of her academic ground if she hadn't been hounded by her main tutor into spending so much time in the airs and waters around Beauxbatons. Still, they did say your health affected your magic, so…

There had been some hazing, of course. But compared to the torment she had received at Hogwarts it was trivial; at least this time she had some people in her corner. Henri was evidently able to spread some of his athletic glamour over her as protection, and being seen taking instructions from not one, but two of _those_ Delacours had given her some insulation from most casual snubs until she had been able to make her own social connections.

When all was said and done, being able to get advanced credit for two core subjects and skipping into the second year classes at midterms wasn't too shabby. And her parents had loved having the excuse to visit her over Christmas. Her Delacour tyrants had refused to let her take more than a few days off, and even those were more of a relaxed study schedule days than true holidays. Her parents hadn't minded, finally seeing her fully happy, and even perky.

So now she was home for the summer. She had a full selection of books for the courses to come, and a schedule for study. When she posted them, Henri would check over the essays and assignments she had been given to do over the summer to help her prepare for the next year. As it would probably be Mrs. Delacour doing at least half of the checking, Hermione had little worry about being left in the hands of a student.

Being in the hands of a student… It had been sometime in the spring that Hermione had finally realized that she wasn't romantically interested in Henri after all. Partially because she had begun to be interested in another student. Partially because… it just wasn't that way between them.

She worried about the boy, though. He was burning so bright, never at rest, always pushing toward some unspoken goal. It wasn't that he was trying to become an Agent de L'agence Central, Branche Magique, but she had never seen anyone outside of one of those Muggle Martial Arts movies that spent so much time, sweat, and sometimes blood learning so many ways to create mayhem and destruction. When she had asked him what was his problem… after he had scolded her about not taking enough pains learning the practical aspects of self-defense… he had (just for a moment) closed down. Henri, the human superball, had just stopped moving, talking and listening. He just stopped, and the most awful look came over his face, and then passed. And he was himself again, but clouded for a day or so.

It seemed a crime against nature that Henri should not be on fire with purpose and joy. Without knowing the name of the problem she hated whoever, or whatever, had caused his pain. Still, his remembered pain finally passed, and except for an even more dedicated study of violence Henri became himself again.

By the end of next year she should be completely caught up on her studies. The year after that and she would be able to really cut loose!

October 30, 1994

Hermione Granger took her seat and gripped the arm of the secured chair firmly. If what she had been told was true, it was likely to be a bumpy ride. She looked around her, at the thirty or so Beauxbatons students in the coach ("More like the interior of a minor cruise ship," she thought, having to had to sit through a relative's slide show on a recent two-week nautical trip to the fjords and cities of Scandinavia), all from the two most senior grades. All except her, who had unmercifully pulled strings, charmed teachers for recommendations, and generally played up her previous connection with Hogwarts. She had even gone so far as to write over the summer to some of the few students she remembered as being not too nasty, to get fresh information, and had studied up in her long buried auto-updating copy of _**Hogwarts: a History**__ ._

Surprisingly, she had gotten replies from Neville Longbottom, and even Lavender Brown. Evidently Neville wasn't quite as shy as she remembered, and Lavender wasn't going to let their thorny relationship back in the day spoil a chance to find out about French witch fashions and style.

Accordingly, Hermione had turned out to be, in fact, a mine of information about Hogwarts, and its current situation. From the status of the Houses to the capture of the Basilisk she did her typical Granger research, and showed the necessity of having a knowledgeable native guide. No one else from her grade could have wiggled her way into the group, because only she was so close to Mr. Delacour, who had been a key partner of the negotiations leading to this renewal of the Triwizard Tournament. The foreknowledge she had gotten while holidaying with the Delacours had given her enough time to hatch her plot. She would beard the lion in its den, and face down Hogwarts, Trolls and all.

Hermione looked out of her coach window; there was a jerk as the great Abraxans roughly hauled the ponderous mass into the air, and quickly the ground became far away, and a veil of clouds soon hid it. They would be several hours on their trip, and she had much to do. She pulled out the basic maps of Hogwarts and its grounds that she had prepared, and got up to start distributing them to her fellow students. Hermione Granger was coming back, but not this time as a little girl all alone, and afraid at being thrown into the deep end of the pool.

Author's Notes:

Marcel is a French House-Elf, and is certainly not treated in the same way a British one is. Therefore he is not limited to rags and cast-offs to clothe himself.

I am only to be held accountable for the English language sections of this story. All else is the fault of Google translations. As only a single phrase was required, I feel that any problems in language are fairly minor and the subject is considered closed.


	3. Longbottom's Tale

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Mosaic: Chapter 3: Longbottom's Tale

By Larry Huss

December 3, 1992

It had all started to go horribly right sometime in his second year. Until then, he had been the Neville that all knew, and gently despised. Inept, timid, and the constant visitor to the Infirmary for a host of minor injuries and for the repair of endless cruel hexes he was still too (somehow) proud to complain about. A safe life, if one not worth living.

It was the latter part that probably was at fault. A life not worth living. He had admitted it to himself years ago; he wasn't leading a dog's life, it was more like one of a particularly un-favored prisoner in the cruelest of psychologically run prisons. Alternating cloying, even smothering, kindness, and then another attempt on his life. Defenestrations (how many children knew what they were, much less having had to survive them in plural?), drowning (or at least an attempt good enough to make the Muggle… policeman [they didn't have Aurors, did they?] who had pulled him out from the water at Bournemouth declaring his Uncle was guilty of an attempt to do so, before he was Obliviated), and enough sharp and pointy spells going his way to develop in him a far better ability to duck and dodge than his pudgy form would have suggested possible. At least at home his would-be assassins were Family; they were doing it with love. At Hogwarts he had to endure the pains and indignities at the hands of those who were hardly in that category. He had decided it was going to end, that night.

There was a Monster (yes, worthy of a capital letter) roaming the corridors of Hogwarts. One that petrified students, and the odd handyman squib, and left them lying about like so many leavings from an incontinent puppy. No one seemed to have the slightest idea of what it was; the Staff were seemingly content to just confine the students to their common rooms and dorms after a very early curfew, and life went on. There was the opinion that the Staff weren't doing more about things as they were quite happy to use the menace as an excuse to stop more thoroughly the secret assignations and trysts that so many of the students in the higher Years spent their evenings engaging in, rather than studying. Certainly, the number of upper level female students slipping unobtrusively (they hoped) into the infirmary early in the mornings after a romantic evening seemed to have dropped.

Naturally enough, in Gryffindor, that meant a Bet had come into existence. The terms varied from telling to telling, but the gist of it was: whosoever can give a first person, eyewitness, report of the truth or falsity of there being a Monster as opposed to it all being an elaborate plot by the teachers, would have his reports and revisions done in his/her pick of a subject for the remainder of that year. Certain details about confirmation were left a bit vague, but it was the House of Godric, after all, and impetuous action, or at least boasting, was to be expected. Not a clinical level of forensic evidence collection. While a few obvious imposters had tried to claim the prize, none had lasted under cross-examination.

So Hell, high-water, or a gorgon added all together; nothing was going to stop Neville Longbottom from getting a shot at having his History of Magic work done by someone who already had an O on his OWL in the subject. Concentrating on leaving the Gryffindor Tower after curfew, Neville didn't notice that behind him two self-ordained prophets of chaos nodded approvingly at his slipping out.

His gut was clenched with fear as he continued on his slippered (far more quiet that way) feet down the corridors and up and down the stairs, now static and taking their own rest for the night. He visited the site of each of the events of petrification, setting the tip of his father's wand, now his, to a dull glow with a Luminos spell at each stop. It wasn't meant to be a dull glow, but Charms came to him with as much difficultly as Transfigurations; only Potions were noticeably worse. From time to time he put his hand against the stone walls of the corridors, or against the floor, in hope of feeling some slight vibration from a ponderous foot. Once, he had to duck into a recessed alcove to avoid Professor Babbling (Ancient Runes) doing a tentative passage down a hallway on the Second Level (West) while rapidly mumbling what was probably some Akkadian protective cantrip, and swinging a fuming incense burner around in elaborate circles, figure eights, and geometric designs that would do any yo-yo demonstrator proud. She didn't notice him, standing rigid in the shadows; perhaps she was too engaged in not banging the censor into a wall to actually be attentive to her surroundings.

Finally, on First Level (North) he noticed, floating at shoulder level (to him) a faint gleaming orb, lit only by the indirect moonlight coming through a narrow window, or perhaps uncovered arrow-slit. There were voices also, and Neville become even more silent as he approached.

"I really don't see why you should kill me; I've hardly done anything to warrant it, after all," was said in a light and high pitched tone. It was surprisingly calm, considering the content of the statement.

Still hidden himself, Neville could now see figures, lit by the crescent Moon: the orb actually a straw-haired girl's head, one a ghost by its translucence, another a second silvery ball (that Neville realized was a very blond head sticking out above a normal student's black cloak), and a vast one, towering up ten feet or more above the floor of the corridor, its head (if it had one) deep into the shadows. That one swayed back and forth a bit, no shoulders or neck could be picked out by the boy behind them.

"Tom, perhaps she's right? I mean, look at her, barefoot and shivering! She wanders the Halls all night just trying to track down what her own dorm mates steal from her, and hide around the School. She's absolutely no great catch." That voice was one that Neville knew well. Draco, Malfoy and Black, but without a trace of the arrogance, or any attempt be commanding and lordly. "Just a Firsty, and mad as a hatter."

"That's from the mercury they use… it makes their wits fly out of their heads," the first voice said.

"You see, completely irrational! Not worth using as a first trophy!" Malfoy's voice was weak though; uncertain.

A different voice answered, amused and light-hearted. It seemed the spirit was an active part of the group.

"We all must start somewhere, Draco. You start here. It doesn't matter if she seems nothing very special now; your first time will always be remembered as special. And you'll remember it fondly, no matter how awkward your first attempts are. When I killed my first it was a proper dog's breakfast, but the results were _totally_ worth it. Now tell your little worm that it's supper time!"

"Yes, Tom," Malfoy said weakly, and began to actually _hiss_. The great form next to him seemed to rear even taller, and leaned slightly back.

Neville stopped his approach for a second; reality was a lot more difficult to handle than fantasies of glory, and then he began to run. It was Death or Glory time, with no hope now of the 'glory' part. But a Firsty, just a kid, was in danger. What else could he do?

As he rapidly closed to the group he wished vainly he had a massively powerful curse to use, but nothing came to mind. He jumped over the barrel-thick body of the snake, and managed to get to Malfoy before the boy… but not the ghost of a pale-skinned and dark-haired student… could turn or respond. It reached up, pointed, and began to speak, but Neville was there faster than that. Touching the tip of his wand to Malfoy's head Neville screamed "Lumos" with all his might, tried to surge all of his pitiful magical power into the spell, and closed his eyes. His wand, the wand of his father, exploded. Through his eyelids he saw a flash, and then he knocked into a slender form and sprawled onto the ground. His hand was a burnt, raw wound, but he had no time to pay attention to it as he pushed himself up to first his knees, and then feet, and grabbed the prone girl. Behind him there was the loud hissing of a steam-engine gone mad, and an unfamiliar voice screaming something. Neville didn't try to look backward, toward the spotlight-bright light attached to Malfoy's head, but threw the girl over his shoulder, and took off running.

His night vision was somewhat damaged by the unexpected brilliance of his spell, but his unprepared target, and his pet, seemed to be far worse off. He had turned a corner and was trying to decide the best way to get back to his Tower, or anyplace there might be a Professor to get help, when he heard the shout of "Finite" in the distance, and the light behind him dimmed. It took another one to be canceled entirely. One of the usually unmentioned benefits of a Hogwarts education; endless hours of running through halls and up and down poorly scheduled stairways, had given him wind and endurance he had lacked living his unhurried life back at Longbottom Hall. His night vision mostly restored, he only slackened his pace a bit, and heard his less-recovered pursuers increasingly behind him. There was yelling and argument in three voices (two being human, of a sort) behind him when he went up a level, and into a different corridor that usually connected to the way to the Gryffindor Tower, he ran into Professor Snape, hurrying in his direction.

"Put that girl down immediately… Longbottom!" thundered the Potions Professor, scarcely believing that he was actually seeing the most timid of the Gryffindors attempting to abduct a girl by force.

"…Sir, sir… big snake, first level. I… think Malfoy summoned it, he was there and ordering it around. He was going to have it eat… the girl. There's some bloodthirsty ghost there too."

While Professor Snape looked at the boy incredulously, noting his bleeding and scorched hand, the girl brushed herself off, pulled her wand from behind her ear, and cast a perfectly normal "Lumos."

"Professor," the girl began in a most calm and reasonable tone, "I'm Luna Lovegood, First Year Ravenclaw, but you can see that from my robe-badge. Evidently Mr. Malfoy has been conspiring with… I suppose Slytherin's fabled monster, and some sort of spirit not usually seen among the Hogwarts ghosts, to… be… Slytherin's Heir, I suppose. But Mr. Malfoy isn't, I think, completely in control of himself. Oh, and according to my daddy's **Encyclopedia of Rare and Dangerous Creatures** the snake _might_ just be a Basilisk. Can't say though, never seen one before. Oh, and the ghost is called Tom, and he's a murderous bastard. Malfoy seems to talk Snake, I've never heard that before."

In a properly pedagogic voice Professor Snape corrected her, "The language is called Parseltongue; one who speaks it is a Parselmouth."

The Professor suddenly cast an unfamiliar spell, and a glowing white deer appeared, and ran swiftly off into the darkness. He then actually dithered for a moment before snapping out instructions.

"Longbottom, take Miss Lovegood to your Common Room immediately. Lock the door behind you until an authorized teacher comes. Get a House-Elf to get you some ice and a burn cream for your hand… and fluids. Alert your House Head if he doesn't already know about things. Move, move!"

As they went down the hallway toward the Gryffindor Tower entrance they heard Neville's least favorite Professor mumble as he went the other way: "Bugger me; it had to be a Basilisk."

After they entered the Gryff Common Room the girl turned to Neville, started to shake his hand, and seeing the state it was in, gave a little curtsey instead. "We haven't been properly introduced, have we? I'm Luna Lovegood, Ravenclaw House. And you must be… ?"

"Neville Longbottom, Gryffindor House. God, it's starting to hurt…!"

Within seconds she had managed to get the attention of a House-Elf, and had it off on its errands. Even before it had come back with a pot of a numbing and burn treating ointment (and a bowl of ice cubes) from the store kept in the kitchens, she had informed him that the Professor should have remembered her because she was the best of her Year in Potions. Also, because her father published a periodical that the Professor evidently read, even if he didn't seem to hold it in very high esteem. But perhaps she didn't look the same at night, or something.

By that time she had slathered his hand with ointment, and Professor Lupin had come down, clothed in a severely practical dressing gown. Neville was finally able to focus his mind on what would be the inevitable outcome of this night's adventure. Grandmother was going to send a Howler to him for blowing up Father's wand. One that would lift the roof off the Great Hall.

December 4, 1992

She had, of course. It wasn't the first one he had received, but it probably beat some sort of record. Even the Weasley twins were impressed, and gave him a friendly, mocking, bow. Still, being the designated failure for the Longbottom family and his Year, he wasn't completely ignorant of how to handle unmerciful embarrassment. Blush the proper shade of crimson, look like you wanted to sink into the tablecloth, glance around in panic to see if there was a proper sized hole to dive into. Piece of cake.

Despite the energetic discharge of Grandmother Longbottom's Howler, there was a good deal less attention paid to it than was usual that day. Not only was Professor Snape attending breakfast with more than one place on his body bandaged, but his left arm was in a sling. For Slytherin House there was another distraction. Draco Malfoy was missing.

During the joint classes that Gryffindor had with Slytherin on that morning, Neville noted a very subdued bunch of Snakes. Pansy Parkinson seemed near tears, as did Greg Goyle. He had to admit it did his heart good to see that… he'd been brought near to a breakdown himself by his Slytherin classmates often enough. And turnabout's…

It was after Lunch that he was called from the Gryffindor Common Room to the Headmistress's Office. There things took a turn toward the surreal. The Headmistress was there of course, but there was also Mr. Lucius Malfoy (holding a strangely distracted and vague Draco), and Professor Snape, and for some reason Professor Smith, who taught History of Magic. Neville wondered why the Lovegood girl wasn't there, if they wanted to get the whole story, but finally shrugged it off; at least she wouldn't be getting in trouble today (Draco's usual tales of his father's vengeance against those he even thought had wronged him were of epic scale).

The interrogation was surprisingly short, and so to the point that Neville concluded that there wasn't any political maneuvering going on at all (Neville was young, and a little naïve, but not stupid). Draco continued to twist his head around and look with wide eyed amazement at the Office and its various moving and shining, and just plain odd decorations. He seemed to be completely removed from the events taking place around him.

One point that was odd, and was brought up repeatedly, from different angles, was whether Draco had been holding a book when Neville had seen him last night. Had he been reading, or writing in a book. Around that point everything else seemed to be fixed. In all truth, Neville couldn't confirm anything about it… Draco had been facing away from him, and the light available had been meager at best. At least Mr. Malfoy didn't seem to be blaming him for Draco's seemingly scrambled wits (there seemed no other explanation of his current behavior than that). Evidently, no one thought a Longbottom fueled "Lumos" spell had enough oomph to scramble anyone's brains, even if it had been applied directly to the head. So, his reputation preceded, and protected him.

After he was ejected from the Office he had to scramble to get to his Charms class in time, only to remember when he got there that his wand was now more suited to providing toothpicks than directing, no matter how poorly, a spell. And he didn't even have the toothpicks.

December 5, 1992

His hand still throbbing (magical injuries were far more lingering than mundane ones, even to magical healing) Neville got his first off-grounds outing that morning; all for good educational reasons though. Professor Sinistra, having no classes right then due to the Sun being up and her being the Astronomy Professor, took him to the Headmistress's Office again, and used the Floo connection to take him to Diagon Alley.

He'd been to the Alley at least a dozen or more times before, but always as a small, ambulatory bundle that had to be steered with a firm grip on his shoulder to whatever store Grandmother was going to haggle in next. Just trying to keep up with her with his child-length legs had been hard enough that he had never really had much chance to actually do any proper window shopping. There had been all those tantalizing glimpses of a world of exotic animals and intriguing artifacts that he was always grabbed and hustled away from. Now, his professor allowed him to slowly amble up the street, and even pause to look in to see snakes and lizards and birds and rodents from all over the world in the pet shop, people taking their leisure and a cup of coffee in the small outside garden of _Fortesque's_ eatery, and to receive a promise that afterwards they would stop off in _Flourish & Blots_ to look at some contemporary books besides school texts. Longbottom Hall had a Library, but it had hardly been added to in the last century or so.

As they walked, they talked, far more freely than they might have back in the corridors of Hogwarts. They talked about how Professor Snape had prevented a most horrible Basilisk from either hurting any more students or escaping. How the Headmistress and Professor Smith had arrived in the nick of time when it had looked like Professor Snape had been cornered with no room to maneuver and avoid the dreaded poison or deadly glare of the snake. How after the alarm had been sent out to all the teachers Professor Lockhart was discovered to be hauling a hastily-packed trunk to the nearest exit away from where the sounds of battle were, and how the Headmistress would be teaching Defense until a new teacher could be hired. Lockhart had, when caught, wanted to be allowed a few weeks to prepare a press-release before leaving, to cover up the reasons for his sudden departure, but the Headmistress couldn't abide him anymore; in fact she'd regretted her hiring decision within the first week of classes. Before Sinistra had time to let Neville in on any more interesting news (she was far less austere now then she was back at school), they had finally arrived at _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C_.

They were greeted by the proprietor as they entered.

"Ah, Mr. Longbottom; I've been expecting you for a year and more. What_ has_ been delaying your? Whatever have you been using for your magic?"

"I've been using my Father's wand, sir. As a mark of respect."

"That won't do, that won't do at all. The wand must choose the wielder, otherwise it's like trying to swim with two anchors tied to your legs.

"Your father's wand… Yew and dragon's heartstring if I remember right. Very good for an Auror's wand, but perhaps a bit too… rigid… prone to crack. Let's try something a little novel; run your hand over the boxes on the third table to your right. Just keep your mind blank and see what happens."

'The wand must choose the wielder.' What rubbish! Grandmother had given him Father's wand; it must have been the best match for him, perhaps something to do with family bloodlines or something. Still , it would only be polite to go along with the creepy old bat (after all, Neville had never seen him in his life, how had he known to call him 'Mr. Longbottom'? If that wasn't creepy, what was?).

So Neville walked over to the waist-high table, with the long slender boxes stacked three high, and slowly passed his hand over the top of each stack. And at the first one there was a pop that came from the box in the middle. His hand jerked over to the next one lined up, and nothing happened, and he quickly swept it further to the left and the lid of the top box jumped off, while a small wisp of smoke and a vagrant spark flared up. So it went, little commotions and sound and fireworks displays, until he got to the next-to-last pile on the table, and the middle box suddenly had its side blown out completely, and a roman-candle display took place.

"I think we may safely assume that we have discovered something that you are not completely out of tune with, eh, Mr. Longbottom?" Ollivander said as he walked over and pulled the middle box out without disturbing in any way (except for the top one slowly sinking downward) any of the others in the display.

"Cherry-wood, with Unicorn's hair. Nine and a half inches, enduring. Interesting… I've rarely seen such a positive match, and one so suggestive of a career," the old man finished.

Afterwards, after the payment and speech on wand care, and the dazed goodbye that Neville gave the craftsman, Professor Sinistra led him out of the shop, to the promised diversions, and then back toward the _Leaky Cauldron_ and the Floo trip back to Hogwarts. All the while it felt, for the first time he could remember, that there was a warm glow crawling up his arm from the hand holding the new wand, as if every time before when he had tried to hold or use Father's wand he had been holding a cold piece of dead wood, and now he had something live and eager to play in his hand. The wand chooses the wielder.

That night he wondered, laying in the darkness, for the first time not hearing Ron's snores because he had finally been able to cast a functioning silencing charm. He wondered: had Grandmother known, and not cared? Did she know, and give him a wand that he probably couldn't use right, because it didn't matter? If he wasn't her precious son Frank, he would have to pretend he was, even if that would mean he would always be a failure. Anything to pretend that Father's ruin hadn't happened, and all the time since then was only a bad dream? Neville wondered… and finally decided that he'd do his best not to fall into that trap. He would live his life into the future, not looking back to the past. He would make his life his own.

October 30, 1994

Neville Longbottom stood with Sue Li on his arm as the huge carriage pulled by the winged horses came in for a landing. There was a brisk cold wind blowing and she cuddled in to him for warmth. He slipped his arm free, and pulled her in, under his robe. It was still new to him, being connected that way to someone, but he wasn't going to pass up a chance to enjoy the benefits of the relationship.

He was looking forward to meeting again one in particular of the Beauxbatons students, Granger. She had written him over the summer, and he had started up a correspondence with her. It was good to know that she had not only survived the Troll, but had stayed in the magical world, and was evidently thriving in it. She had been as helpful to him as a Firsty could have been, before the Incident, and he wanted to catch up on things with her, and tell her of the odd times Hogwarts had been seeing lately. And fill her in on Draco's hiatus; the boy had been so hoity-toity to her, she'd enjoy the irony.

He glanced over to the block of Hufflepuffs, with a tallish boy standing like a tower among the First Years. A nice, if very quiet boy; a little shy at being by far the oldest student in his Year. Draco had appreciated Mr. Longbottom (the Werewolf-Tamer!) being so friendly, showing him the ropes, and stopping the Gryffindors from teasing him.

There she was! In the back ranks of the Sixth and Seventh Years debarking from the carriage. They were all stylish in blue silk; light blue skirts and jackets for the girls, and darker blue suits for the boys. From the looks of it, though, they weren't completely ready for a late October in the Scottish Highlands.

"Got to go now, Love," he said, and detached himself from Sue, joining the welcoming committee. Being the head of an Ancient and Noble House had certain obligations after all. He'd see if he could nudge the welcoming speeches toward the short side, and get their guests indoors as quickly as possible. Tomorrow, or the next day, he'd get his chance to talk to Hermione, and introduce her to Sue.

November 2, 1994

"'Werewolf-Tamer…' really, Longbottom? Do you have a monopoly on every odd thing that's occurred here in the last few years? I've heard about you wrestling an anaconda, putting the Malfoys' under a Life Debt, and rescuing a Centaur colt, but Werewolf-Tamer?" Hermione Granger was still finding the active weirdness of Hogwarts confusing after the years of sedate education at orderly Beauxbatons.

"Perhaps ten percent true, if you use a very loose value for 'true.' The only 'tame' werewolf we've had here was actually hired by the Headmistress as Transfiguration Professor. Best we had up till then, everyone says. Maybe even as good as she was, in her day. Name of Remus Lupin, one of the Weasley twins' idols in fact; a notorious prankster when he was a student.

"He handled his lunar problem by taking a recently discovered potion… it controls the violent tendencies. People figured out his situation pretty quickly, but there wasn't any problem as long as there weren't any crusades for or against. You know how it is. But there's always some nasty bugger who can't let things alone…"

April 4, 1993

It had really started out so innocently. Years ago anyone with an ounce of brains had figured out (or at least remembered that someone who had figured it out had told them) that Professor Remus Lupin was a werewolf, but completely under control due to Professor Snape giving him Wolfsbane Potion. It was kept generally quiet, these little eccentricities being tolerable in Wizarding society as long as they could politely be ignored. At the first hint of trouble all Hell-and-a-half would break out, but such is life. As it has often been observed, the most powerful social forces in the magic world are hypocrisy, nepotism, and wistful thinking. At least for a while a decent man had some decent employment.

Now that the evening breezes had moderated enough that a talented Upper Year could make themselves comfortable outside with a thick cloak or two and a well done Warming Charm, it wasn't enough to just check up on what closets were ajar at night, or who was visiting the Astronomy Tower only wearing their shoes and a long outer robe. Remus tried to smile at the memories of the daring ruses of his youth, when the ability to get going quickly without leaving any clothing discarded behind had seemed the height of both romance and daring, if not comfort.

Now, properly potioned up, and with the Moon full, he had been given night duty of an especially suitable sort. In the darkness he would keeping the amorous and adventurous from going off path (and meeting up with an aggressive Whomping Willow), or successfully achieving their ends and causing their parents the expense of sending the school administration bills for their daughter's "procedure" several months down the line. His night-adapted senses had made him a natural to be selected for this duty, and it wasn't as if he would have been sleeping well these evenings anyway.

It also wasn't as if there weren't a few students around with legitimate business in the night, some favored (or perhaps the reverse) among them would be spending time collecting nocturnal blooms, or things that were best done with the Sun out of the sky. But they would be walking alone, rather than in pairs (or occasionally larger groups), and with his nose Lupin would have no trouble telling which group was which.

Tonight though… tonight he felt uneasy. Having taken the potion he only felt the madness and hunger like a distant itch in every part of him. Compared to what a 'raw' night felt like, it was an absolute pleasure. But tonight… there was an odd reek in the air; he'd almost asked the Headmistress to put the school on full lockdown. Without anything concrete to advance his case, he merely spent twice as much time and concern patrolling the grounds, and gently shepherding students toward the doors of the Castle, and feeling oddly relieved when he heard the bang of the wood and iron valves close.

And then there was the scream.

Not too far off. Downwind and toward the Black Lake. Repeated, and then Lupin heard nothing more over the blood pounding in his ears as he ran at top speed in that direction.

It was forever, and less than a minute, when he saw the two students clutching each other in the light of the bright, full Moon. And a huge, hulking mass circling them, ever closer, growling an immense bass rasp that seemed to make the earth shake.

Lupin couldn't tell the children to run while he covered their retreat, so he didn't bother to even slow down. The great head of Fenrir Greyback barely had time to turn before the gray and black body of Remus Lupin hit him, with jaws desperately reaching for the throat.

As the two cursed bodies rolled, snarling and snapping at each other on the silvery grass, Mandy Brockelhurst grabbed Dean Thomas and began dragging him toward the refuge of the Castle. Within a few seconds he had gotten the idea clearly enough, and began to run with all his power, leaving the girl behind. By the time they could make out the nearest entrance to the Castle in the moonlight they had started to shout out warnings that something was wrong outside. They didn't actually see but one person, but they felt that they had an obligation. Dean ripped open the door, waited for Mandy to get in, and slammed it behind them, engaging the bolt. It wasn't for a few moments that the memory that there _had_ been someone else out there came to mean something. But there wasn't anyone desperately beating on the door and begging for admittance, so it probably didn't matter.

Neville Longbottom had been out inspecting Greenhouse 5. Some of the moveable vents had been acting sticky after the long, cold, winter, and Professor Sprout had given permission to her favorite student to check that the cool night air wasn't affecting them, and to practice his charms in making sure they were properly adjusted and lubricated. Now he could hear the raw sound of massive beasts snarling and yipping as fangs ripped flesh, and he cursed with each step as he ran toward a place he would have given almost anything to avoid.

Fifty yards from the glittering waters, the two werewolves were circling each other, the panting as they got their breath back like the sounds of a steam engine getting up to speed. It was easy enough to see which was which; the moon provided almost enough light to read by, for eyes used to being outside in a place with no streetlamps or other sources of illumination. One was massively bigger than the other, and carried far fewer spreading patches of blood. Older and more experienced, bigger and able to tap into the berserk strength of the unmedicated werewolf, the way this battle would end was foreordained. With his still-human mind Lupin realized that, but he had heard the warning shouts. Now he only had to keep the beast in battle here, while the last of the students that were out had a chance to get to safety, and alert one of the Staff that could use a wand. He knew this would probably be his last choice in life. He didn't regret it.

Suddenly Greyback yelped, and twisted around as if trying to bit his own flank. He was slowly lifted up, until no matter how he tried to reach he couldn't bring any of his paws in to contact with the ground. No matter how he twisted and turned he couldn't break the clutch of the spell that separated him from anything he could use to get traction and mobility. Slowly, he floated over to the dark waters of the Lake.

Lupin twisted his head, and caught the scent, at the same time identifying the shape, of Neville Longbottom. The boy slowly and carefully walked toward the water's edge, trying desperately not to stumble and lose control of the spell that kept the most dangerous of werewolves harmless. His face had a look of ultimate concentration, but oddly enough little strain. Neville had said in class, Lupin remembered, that after having had to use a poorly-aligned wand for so long he had built up lots of strength, but he had to constantly practice to develop any fine control. His Transfiguration professor wouldn't deduct any points for bad form this time.

Once Greyback was well over the waters, past the point where the bottom went from shallow shelving to deep, Longbottom gave a grunt, and the werewolf slowly rotated until his head was pointed down. Then the massive body was slowly lowered into the water, about half-way. And stayed that way as the frantic motions of the paws kicked up afroth for an unimaginable long time… until even the legendary vigor of the werewolves proved unequal to the task of breathing water. And still the body stayed there, half in and half out, until a task force of Staff, Flitwick and McGonagall in the lead, arrived ten minutes later.

November 2, 1994

"'Werewolf Killer' sounded a little raw, so 'Tamer' was tried, and passed the test of public opinion. Since the tame werewolf was on the Staff from the start, and risked his life protecting students, his unfortunate condition continues to be ignored, and he's something of a favorite example for some politicians trying to prove their lack of bias. Still, we get the oddest Staff here."

Sue Li watched the brown-haired girl with suspicious eyes. She didn't want to act jealous, but in a way Hermione Granger had her own little bit of legend at Hogwarts, and she had known Neville from the first day he had been in school. Even before she had started writing him her name had come up in his conversation fairly regularly. Was she making a play for Neville, with her silk and grace and perfect teeth? Sue knew she had been brilliant, before the Troll. If she made a play for Neville, what did Sue have to offer that would keep him? The Hogwarts witch hung onto Neville's arm just a little tighter, trying to say something by raw pressure. At least he didn't flinch, or pull away.

In fact Neville turned, and smiled at her.

November 24, 1994

Neville felt awkward, sitting by himself up in the stands. Sue was boycotting the Task, saying it was cruel to use dragons that way. Whatever way 'that' was. He had offered to keep her company, if she could get him into the Ravenclaw Commons, but she knew he had been looking forward to seeing the event, and had kicked him out of the Castle with instructions not to tell her about it, except who did best if it was Cedric.

Ron was over by his brothers, laughing at their long white beards. Neville now regretted not having tried to fool the Age Line protecting the Goblet of Fire. He'd always fancied himself in a beard, and it would have been fun seeing how it fitted him. Ah, well, he'd had his chance.

There was Hermione, over a bit and down three tiers, not quite sitting in a Beauxbatons section, but with what looked like a family group that, in general, looked a lot like the French champion. A gorgeous woman who could have been Delacour's older sister, a youngling that could only be her little sister, and a somewhat ridiculous and round man. A dark haired boy walked up to them, holding a wicker basket. He pulled out a silvery stoppered jug, and began to pour out something that managed to fume invitingly. The scent of hot chocolate was in the air, and Neville decided it was time to introduce himself to the Continental visitors. And even if they were there to support the Beauxbatons Champion, they still had hot chocolate on a very cool evening.

So for a few moments it was all; "Hello…" "This is…" "I've heard so much…" "Ignore him…" "I'm not sleepy… !" Very much the usual introduction of one set of acquaintances to another. Having snagged his cup of cocoa, Neville pointed out local dignitaries and relatives (so usually the same, if second cousins were to be counted), and Mr. Delacour made occasional little comments on things he had seen the same people do at various conferences and meetings. Witty, sharp, and scandalous little comments.

Neville wasn't quite able to figure out Hermione's relationship to these people, except that it was close. The little girl, Gabrielle, was sharing her cloak, and from the look of contentment and ease she had, it evidently wasn't the first time. The boy, Henri, was alarmingly charming, friendly, and oddly distant; his eyes were always scanning the crowd looking for… something. Madame Delacour was what her daughters would no doubt be in a dozen years. In beauty, presence, and slightly overwhelming personality she was no doubt the center of whatever gathering she deigned to attend. With all that, she evidently had a soft spot in her for the Muggle-born Granger, treating her like a favorite niece. The family was alright in Neville's books.

When the event started, as the stars began to show in the early evening sky, everyone in the stands was on the edge of their seats as the first dragon was led out to the artificially designed nesting area. A big brute it was, that quickly coiled itself protectively about the clustered eggs. A moment later the first Champion was announced: Fleur Delacour.

After the young woman made her first commandingly simple illusion Neville stopped seeing anything except the slim figure, so far below, as she worked her way closer to the great green beast. She went slowly, in little oblique lines. Never direct, or quick, or threatening. He wondered if she had gotten her illegal and secret information (the Champions weren't supposed to know what the Tasks were before they started on them, but it was an open secret that leaks had been made to each of them days earlier) long enough ago to steal some of the Dragon-Wranglers hidden methods. Neville had heard the rumor she was half-Veela... half a nonhuman seductress. If she had had time to get to the men bringing the Dragons in for the Task, she would have had a unique advantage compared to Diggory or Krum. Or… Neville looked to his side. Little Gabrielle's face was scrunched up in concentration, and next to her Granger was whispering, "Softly, slowly, just the way we practiced… "Ah, why else bring someone too young to compete, but a perfect speed demon on research and brilliant deductions? Neville could bet there wasn't a book with a reference on Dragons in Hogwarts' fabled Library that hadn't gotten a perusal in the last week by someone from Beauxbatons.

The blonde was now actually stroking the Dragon now, long passes down under its chin and toward its chest. The great head was slowly sinking, the eyes drooping toward close. Delacour wasn't going to get too many points on speed, perhaps. But there was no denying she would take the lot on style and not injuring the beast.

Then, a bright indigo beam flew out of the stands to his left, and Neville automatically categorized it: "Blasting Curse, highly powered, heading toward the fucking Dragon!"

It struck the ground, a little short and to the left. Then, a much weaker version of it could be seen flying off into the air as the hushed voices in the arena suddenly broke out into an inarticulate roar of panic.

Down on the floor of the arena the flare of light, and the sound of its effect, had woken and aroused the Dragon instantly. Without a moment's hesitation its huge head had lunged out, grabbed the robe of the Beauxbatons Champion, and flipped her into the egg-filled nest the huge body was curled protectively around. The body seemed to expand, as it tried to provide better protection for the eggs. Its head darted left and right peering off into the gloom past the bright lights illuminating the contest area, searching for the source of the danger to its eggs and hatchling.

"Help me, Neville!" Hermione's voice rang out. He turned and saw her fiercely gripping the boy, Henri, who was trying to get free and run down toward his sister below. Neville managed to grab him, and yelled in his ear: "She's safe now; disturb the Dragon and who knows what will happen!"

After a few minutes the boy subsided. He was trembling with suppressed rage and energy.

McGonagall's' voice finally rang out, powered by a good strength 'Sonorus' spell that reached every ear.

"The Beauxbatons Champion, Miss Delacour will be considered to have completed her Task, with full marks, from the moment the disturbance from the Stands occurred. As soon as the Dragon Wranglers have quieted down and led the current beast off, the Tournament will continue.

"Oh, and the girl seems to be alright. That is all, please be patient."

It took most of the next hour for the Wranglers to straighten things out, during which the girl down in the arena, surrounded by tons of protective reptilian flesh, seemed calmer and more relaxed than her relatives up in the stands. Mr. and Mrs. Delacour were comforting Gabrielle with a great deal of hugging and unending assurances in a language Neville didn't know. What was interesting was that Hermione was staring at Henri, and seemed ready to jump on him, as the boy sat slumped, no… crouched, no… coiled on his seat, his head and eyes scanning the stands around them with a hard and merciless gaze. He looked like Professor Moody did, sometimes, when his reminisces of past battles took his mind completely back, and it was as if he was reliving the events in all their rage and pain.

Finally, with about two thirds of the original crowd still sitting, Fleur walked daintily out of the encircling and protective creature, unmolested and with the golden egg that had been her goal in her arms. The faces of all were turned toward the triumphant young woman. Except two… one continued to scan the others in the stands, the other looking at the first for some signal that hadn't been arranged, but would somehow be perfectly understood.

As Fleur reached first the Judges' stand (and her victory confirmed), and then went into the cluster of congratulatory Beauxbatons students, her parents and sister hurriedly hustled down to join her. Hermione, Henri and Neville looked at each other. Neville finally broke the silence.

"We'll stick out if we don't go down, and whoever you're hunting will notice us sticking out up here."

"Hunting?" Henri asked.

Hermione grabbed his arm and hustled him off after his parents. Over her shoulder she tossed a final comment, "I knew I was right about you, Longbottom!"

Puzzling over that, Neville got up and followed them down, to congratulate the guest to his school at her fine performance. It was only polite, and the sort of thing he should do. If, while he went down the stairs, he was casually checking out people to his right for odd patterns of movement, while Henri Delacour was doing the same thing to their left, and if Hermione Granger was chatting charmingly, and incidentally keeping up a diligent sky-watch, no one ever commented on it.

February 18, 1995

They were together at _The Three Broomsticks_… Sue Li, Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, and Eddie Carmichael. Fleur Delacour had been with them earlier, but had been driven off by the stream of gawkers and would-be suitors that had seemingly sprung up from the shadows to pester her. Back in Hogwarts she had finally gotten things under control, but out in a world not previously exposed to her attractions, things had remained unbearable. Sue was unhappy at that; Delacour had been good company, and a lot of fun when she didn't feel that she had to stand on her dignity.

Sue still felt that Granger was too familiar with Neville by half, but since she had started being seen in Eddie's company a good bit lately, the worst fears that the interloper was after Nev had receded, somewhat. Sometimes, when the two of them, Granger and Longbottom, were together it was just normal. But sometimes… there was an unspoken symmetry to their thoughts and actions that scared Sue. It was like… certain family meetings when all the old folks would communicate by glances and facial ticks. All the young at those times felt vaguely ashamed that they couldn't fathom what was going on, and slightly angry that they were being left out. It was like that.

"Have they ever discovered why that wizard disrupted the First Trial?" asked Eddie, the question being a natural one after spending some time with one of the Champions.

"A patriotic bookie, they figure," Granger said. "When the word got out that Fleur was going to get mucho points for Style, and not injuring the dragon or the other eggs, someone who was doing a bit of bookmaking was seen next to the dupe who fired off the spell. Identity currently unknown. The person they caught was definitely under the 'Imperius.' Just a random bystander being used."

Sue chipped in with, "I hate it when people act like that, endangering wonderful creatures. Krum actually hurt his dragon, he deserved to be disqualified." Neville knew that she meant 'disqualified with a dull and rusty knife.'

"I rather hate it that one of the nicest people I know was meant to be killed so that someone could collect on a bet," Hermione said.

Sue had the sense to just stay quiet and blush at that.

"How'd you get involved with the French anyway… weren't you at Hogwarts in '90 or '91?" asked Eddie.

For a minute Hermione just stared straight ahead, then her shoulders got the 'I'm going to do my duty' stiffness in them, and she began to speak.

"It was '91. I've been told that I'm actually part of Hogwarts legend now: 'The Troll and the Girl.'"

Eddie's face took on a very strange look, as did Sue. A strained silence circled the table, when Neville did a little throat clearing.

"Ah, Hermione was a Gryff, helped me a lot in potions and such. Hmmm. Hermione, in the course of time a certain… erotic element… sort of slipped into the story."

"Erotic? Troll?" After a moment's incredulous silence she did something she never thought she would ever do, remembering that evening. Hermione began to laugh. "It was too busy throwing my body against the walls to be giving me flowers and reciting poetry. At twelve feet tall I doubt we'd have made a good match in the 'erotic' department, anyway. I spent a month at St. Mungo's, nearly depleted their supplies of Skele-Gro, and couldn't walk for months afterwards, either. That's how the French thing started.

"My parents took me to the French coast that summer, for rehabilitation. Met the Delacours there; Henri and Gabriele. They saved me." Her voice sank very low, almost lost in the general hubbub of the dining room. "Saved me." Louder now: "Henri's a monster, you know."

At the others' startled little flinch she laughed again. "As in the strange, unusual, and marvelous sense. A cold mind and a hot heart. He can't help wanting to help people, and figuring out the ways to save them. I had a crush on him for a little while, until I realized that certain monsters are best admired from a slight emotional distance. We all worry about him so. Someday he'll get into such a jam…"

Later, as they walked back up to the school, Neville looked at the other couple. Hermione and Eddie weren't holding hands; he kept a bit apart from her. As Neville took a slightly firmer grip on Sue he shook his head a little. Eddie just wasn't up to Hermione's level. He was just a nice enough boy who wanted to get into her knickers. She wanted someone with lightning in them. Neville would have bet that Hermione wasn't as over her crush on Henri as she thought.

Author's Notes:

Professor Smith-History of Magic teacher. A nice enough person, but a very tough grader of essays and tests.

Professor Snape- Potions Professor. Stern and rather abrasive, but considering the need for precision in Potions his insistence on proper procedure is understandable. Rumored to be a bit too partial to Slytherin House (of which he is Head).

Professor Lupin- Transfiguration Professor. Hired in the mid '80s competent and patient, Head of Gryffindor.

Professor Sprout-Head of Hufflepuff House and Herbology Professor.

I'd once again like to mention my editor, Nathan Huss, who has managed to not only correct grammar and a few other purely punctuation problems, but straightened me out on two significant plot situations that were insufficiently clear on my first go-round.


	4. Badger

I do not own, or receive any benefits, from the Harry Potter properties.

Mosaic: Chapter 4: Badger

By Larry Huss

September 1, 1994

Draco Malfoy, Lord Black, knew he stuck out like a sore thumb among the incoming First Year students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Everyone was looking at him. He wasn't just having the normal jitters a nervous child would have at starting a new school; it was due to him being white-headed, thin, and head-and-shoulders taller than any of the other children waiting to get sorted into their respective Houses, their homes for the next seven years. He wondered if it had been as bad the first time.

He couldn't know, of course. All that had been lost when Voldemort (no Lord going to him) had tried to drain his soul and steal his life. Even the best Healers hadn't proved able to recover for him the years he had lost. The Muggle healers Father had taken him to hadn't been any better, even with their hypnotism and syrups. At least there was general agreement: Don't worry. Everything essential would come back; anything else was expendable anyway.

Now he had returned, to where he had lost the first twelve years of his life. Returned, to take back if not the memories, at least the skills he had been told he had once had. He hoped that he was ready for it… that Father, and Mother, Uncle Sirius, and Professor Snape had prepared him enough that he wouldn't disgrace the names Malfoy and Black. It had been Uncle Sirius and Professor Snape who had worked the hardest with him, Father and Mother always being so busy. His two tutors in all the magic arts.

How strange that the only thing that kept them from each other's throats was a dedication that Draco would not be crippled as a wizard forever.

He'd been persistent enough to find out that the disaster had somehow been his own fault. Yet when they were alone together, sometimes, Father would try to find a way to apologize for something to him, as if he had somehow been involved in the event. Father could never exactly say how, but it gnawed at him, no matter how Draco had tried to find the words to give him absolution.

He would be the best. Only if he was the best could he redeem whatever folly he had done that had caused his mind to wipe itself clean. He would work till he dropped, giving everything, just as Uncle Sirius had always dropped everything to come and help him when he had a problem. Mother and Father had given him as much of their distant affection as they knew how to, and every physical comfort. Professor Snape had produced cunning lessons and had curbed his own fierce temper as best he could to help Draco re-learn the basic lessons of magic and potions. But it had been Uncle Sirius who had seemed to always be there, even when his wife nagged him about neglecting his own children by spending so much time with Draco.

Now that could stop… tonight Draco would finally begin again. He'd discover his House, he'd discover his friends, and he'd discover his life. All the people who mattered to him… Father and Mother and Uncle and Professor Snape, and even Professor Lupin… they'd all said he'd find another family when he was sorted. He'd finally have brothers and sisters, even if their parents were different. Growing up (for the second time, sort of) had been a lonely thing in regard to having friends his own age. Crabbe and Goyle had memories of his first life, and never seemed to be able to understand that that was all gone now. Uncle Sirius's children were infant and toddler, impossible for Draco to really talk to. Now he would finally have the chance. If his Housemates to be didn't think him too old, and big, and too freakish.

The names were being called, and one by one the children went up to put on the Sorting Hat, and then sent on to their destinations. Adling… and Corwin… and Engle and Islinger… and now Malfoy. He felt that everyone in the great hall was looking at him as he went up. Probably because it was true. He lifted the hat up from the stool it sat on, and still standing he set it on his head.

The refreshing feeling of magic settled around him as everything outside his head disappeared. The feeling of another consciousness in there with him was unfamiliar, but somehow comforting.

"What shall we do with you?" said a voice that didn't alarm him.

"Send me to where I should go, send me to where I can make my family proud of me," Draco said into the velvety silence.

"Been here once, but you're not the same boy. Before it was like sliding into a river, now there are bits and pieces floating around, some old… some new. It would be hard for you to get back in the swing of things in your old House, you know."

"I can do it, I don't give up. If I can recover enough in less than two years to be ready to come here again, I can do whatever I must, I'm not scared of the hard things."

"Yes… I can see that. Impressive. Someone like that must be… Hufflepuff!"

As he walked down to the Hufflepuff table he could hear the murmuring, especially from the Slytherin area. Perhaps it was his imagination; he was feeling so self-conscious right then.

October 30, 1994

It was a bit cold, waiting out with the other Hufflepuff representatives to greet the visitors from the other schools, but the Prefects had made sure everyone had a good Warming Charm working on them so it wasn't bad. Looking around he saw Longbottom, and smiled. When he'd first started (his second time) he'd been warned that during his initial attendance he'd had some… difficulties with Longbottom, and as a hot-headed Gryff… retributions would surely be forthcoming.

Instead, one day when a bunch of Third Year Gryffs had been egging each other on to be the first to "show the ickle Firsties their place" it had been Longbottom and Weasley (well, Longbottom, mostly) who had sent them off with a flea in their ear. Actually a carpet of hungry fleas all over themselves that he'd promised wouldn't be Transfigured away until they learned how to be decent. Just that; decent. Two facing off a good half dozen, it was… very Longbottom from what Draco had heard about him.

The itching and scratching students, covered by a moving carpet of pests, backed down as much from their awe as the sheer discomfort, and as soon as Weasley and Longbottom had cured them of their plague the Thirds had fled. In the end it had added to the stories that went on about… Neville (he had said that he was just Neville). He'd even explained how he'd done it all so fast: "Basic Transfiguration; wool robe equals fleece goes to Fleas. Nothing complicated, Ron and me, and his brothers have been working on thinking like that, helps speed and all. So… get the basics down well, and it all comes easy.

"In you need help about anything, Draco, let me know. I've been on the bottom, too."

And then he'd walked off, with Weasley. No old grudges paid off, no family feud with the Weasley's coming up. Draco knew he'd seen the real Lions, the ones that counted.

It was only the Slytherins (not the Professor, of course) who seemed to want to give him a hard time for becoming a Badger. Crabbe and Goyle at least ignored him; they'd seen him during his difficult rebuilding at home, and left him alone. There were others: Parkinson, and Greengrass, and Nott in particular were nasty. It was if they felt he had betrayed them, somehow. Some old problems, no doubt, that he could no longer remember. He had no idea how to resolve it with them.

November 12, 1994

She was looking at him, as he sat in his usual seat in the Library. One of those Beauxbatons girls; all the 'Puff girls were gushing over how chic and sophisticated they were. This one… was looking at him with a fearful intensity. He tried to search his memory for what he had done… blank. There were a fair number of Hogwarts boys that had, frankly, made fools of themselves with the French girls… especially Miss Delacour… but Draco knew he hadn't been one of them, at least publically. What happens in your dreams was private business.

The brown-haired girl gave her head a decisive nod, and stood up and walked up to Draco with the stride of someone about to issue a challenge. He gulped, but a Malfoy had manners; he stood and gave a polite little nodding bow as she stopped in front of him.

"Draco Malfoy, Miss."

"I know you, Malfoy. You should know I don't forget."

Her voice implied that whatever she wasn't forgetting wasn't likely to be something pleasant. He felt pitiful having to fall back on his standard defense. On the other hand trying to fake his way through the coming conversation was likely to be somewhere between awkward and ludicrous. Or maybe dangerous from the look on her face; she looked… angry.

He stopped himself from drawling out his answer; imitating Father was unlikely to be something he could back up. "I'm sorry Miss, I really don't know you. I have to complement you on your English; I could swear you were born here."

"Don't give me that, Malfoy. And what are you doing with a Hufflepuff badge, anyway? Don't tell me the Snakes kicked you out. The way you talked you made it sound that your father owned the damned House."

'Merlin and Morganna,' he thought. 'She must be someone I ticked off in my last incarnation here. Did I drive her out of the country? Must say something.'

"I am a Hufflepuff, Miss. Sorted in this year when I came up as a First Year. I'd been here… before, but I've been very… sick. I don't remember much about things from before about two years ago. Who are you, Miss?"

"'Sick,' Malfoy? The story that got back to France didn't mention anyone getting brain fever. Just Longbottom wrestling a snake, and you being somehow involved." She plopped into an empty chair, with the oddest, funniest, look on her face; and seeing Draco still standing awkwardly gave an imperious gesture for him to resume his seat.

"Don't remember… anything from '91, '92?" she asked in a far more hesitant voice.

"Nothing before the end of nineteen-ninety-two. Well… language and walking and such. People have commented that I'm… different… from what I was like before. But I really can't remember anything." Then he took a little gulp of air, and performed the necessary social action. "Please accept-"

At that point she made a wide, sweeping gesture with her hand, stopping him in mid-grovel.

"If you don't remember it, it wasn't you and bygones are gone-by. It's just a shame; I've been saving up a good rant to throw in your face for years now. Polishing it up, working on the exact phrasing and rhythm. And here you go become all innocent on me. It's not fair Malfoy; not fair at all!"

Her face broke out in a sudden smile, that was too contagious for him to resist, and he laughed before he twisted his head around to see if Madame Pince had hear any of this and would be hustling over to thrust them into the outer darkness (the corridor outside needing some recharging of its illumination spells). No, she was evidently somewhere deep in the stacks of magic books, where rumors were that she met strange and mysterious entities who were also in the Magical Library business. Probably a joke… probably.

"Granger," she said, "Hermione Granger, Fourth Year equivalent at Beauxbatons. I'd originally-"

It was at that point that Draco couldn't resist breaking into someone's statement: "Granger! The Troll and the Girl! It's true then! You… you fought a Troll!"

"Not very well, or long."

"Maybe not, but people are still talking about it. They say that you had to be carried out in a bucket because every bone in your body was broken up! And-"At that point he noticed the slightly pained look on her face. Hearing about how a Troll had broken every bone in your body probably didn't bring back that many good memories.

Seeing from his face how his spirits had fallen she reached out and gently squeezed his arm.

"Not so bad, but I didn't walk for months, not without pain for a year. All my teeth are new grown, and… not a bucket, but certainly a stretcher and a wheelchair and crutches for a while. Not as bad, maybe, as you losing yourself… but the nightmares still come, sometimes."

Nightmares; Draco could sympathize with that, well enough:

"Mine are… I'm a sort of ghost that not even the ghosts sense. Floating… empty… all grey in the all-grey world. And cold, very cold. After one of them, when I wake up, I want to punch something just so that I can be sure that I can feel something again."

The girl's hand squeezed him again, just a little bit. Whatever grudge she had held about Draco Malfoy-Slytherin was settled now, and she felt only companionship for Draco Malfoy-Hufflepuff. Draco wondered if the old him would have rejected that; from everything he'd been able to piece together since he'd come back, he rather imagined that Old Draco was something of a snobbish git.

November 24, 1994

Draco had just finished applying a Warming Charm to one of his Housemates when the first Contestant walked out onto the floor of the arena that had been specially prepared for the Tournament. He'd spent a lot of time and effort in learning that relatively advanced charm, but that night when the visitors had arrived had convinced him that Hogwarts in winter was well worth the effort. The respect the effort had garnered him had confirmed his judgment, not to mention the lack of freezing toes after sitting at the workbenches for a full double-session of Potions down in the dungeons.

Some of his neighbors had begun to complain that the girl down below was being boring in her slow and cautious approach, but to Draco it was more like the first steps of a graceful dance, just no one but her could hear the music. When she began to gently stroke the Dragon's chin he actually giggled, it was so right!

And then the attack. That horrid and evil attack. When the beast suddenly grabbed the girl Draco had flinched, until he saw where she had been deposited, unharmed. That was right, that was how things should be! The Dragon knew the Dance, how could anyone dare disrupt it?

December 27, 1994

The Family was all together for the day. Mother and Father and Uncle Sirius and Aunt Brigid and the Tonks, and… just everybody. Counting the children (but not the House-elves, of course) there were eleven, maybe add a half also… Aunt Brigid was expecting again.

This year he had eaten at the main table; as a Hogwarts student he was expected to be able to handle adult manners and adult conversation. Not that anyone asked his opinion about much, but it was a big change from the previous years when he was seated separately with Deidre (little Lizzie still being in the bottle and nap stage) and was expected to make conversation with a three year old.

After dinner, as Draco might have expected, the subject of Sortings came up. He knew that Mother and Father had been disappointed at where he had ended up (after his first start had begun so promisingly in Slytherin); even Uncle Sirius had evidently had abandoned any hopes that he'd managed to make a Malfoy a Gryffindor (fat chance of that!). Eventually the subject of the Sorting Hat came up, and how it was the oldest of the still functioning talking artifacts of Wizarding (or Muggle) Britain. Even the Stone of Scone no longer voiced its opinion of the bum that sat above it, and for the Lia Fa'il… well, the less said the better, the way that poor thing had been abused.

From there the conversation had, naturally enough, gone to what the Hat had told each of the others about which House they would be going to, except Aunt Brigid who had been at Beauxbatons.

Uncle Ted (Ravenclaw) remembered with perfect clarity that he'd bombarded the Hat with questions when he tried it on, and it had sent him to the Eagles just to finish the interview and get some peace and quiet.

Father said that as soon as the Hat was on his head it just muttered "Typical Malfoy…Slytherin you go boy!" And the tone hadn't been all that enthusiastic, either.

Mother and Aunt Andromeda (Slytherins) both mentioned long arguments, but not what they had been about.

Uncle Sirius said he had still been just entering his angsty rebel phase then, and becoming a Gryffindor was practically obligatory.

Professor Snape had to be cajoled by the whole bunch to finally admit that while he'd been under the hat he'd tried to argue it into sending him to the House his best friend had gone to. Finally all his arguments had convinced it that at the very least he wasn't a Ravenclaw after all, and it said anyone who could twist logic and reason like that had a mind as convoluted as a Slytherin. Draco got the feeling, though, that the Professor hadn't been arguing to go into the House of the Snake, just that the Hat had decided to end the conversation by fiat.

Professor Lupin said the Hat found him boring (Professor Snape had snorted at that), and sent him to Gryffindor because aside from Uncle Sirius no one else had been assigned there yet that year.

Dora Tonks (everyone was so proud of Cousin Dora; she'd just made Auror earlier that year), had been a Puff, because the Hat had said that as a Metamorphmagus she was never going to fit into the narrow specializations of the other Houses. Draco had thought that was interesting. The Hat thought the other Houses were limited in their range.

Finally it was Draco's turn (he wondered if they'd had Dora go just in front of him so he wouldn't be embarrassed not being from one of the more spectacular Houses).

"It was just meandering along, saying I wasn't like I'd been the first time, when it was easy. I finally told it I wasn't afraid of hard work, it said that that much determination was impressive, so it sent me to Hufflepuff. Of course I meant that I could handle the work of becoming a Slytherin again, but… you know… it is the Hat!"

The story went over very well, even with Mother and Father. By the time the Yule Dinner broke up for the night Draco was just the slightest bit drunk (Uncle Sirius had been slipping him real wine, whenever Mother or Aunt Brigid weren't looking) and very happy. No little dustups between Snape and Uncle Sirius, not a sneer in the whole evening between the Pure-Bloods and the Muggleborn or Half-Bloods. Aunt Brigid had announced that the next one had been tested, and Uncle Sirius would be having a boy to spoil this time around. A fine evening; perhaps even a best evening. It almost deserved a star.

When he was up in his room, even before he changed for the night, Draco called up the Calendar. It occupied an entire wall of the room when it was expanded, all the furniture and other things just shrunken and stored away until the Calendar was made into a little postcard-sized thing again. It was the story of Draco's life, in dates and little notes… and a few stars.

There, at the beginning, June 5, 1980 was the first notation, and star 'Draco born'. There, on March 17th, 1982 was the note 'Draco's first Accidental Magic'. His first step was only worth a note, but his first first Accidental Magic was properly recorded. The next star (but hardly note) Mother had put on the Calendar had been his Hogwarts letter.

There, on December 3, 1992, was the note of his death: 'Draco hurt, wits scattered'. The scores of brief notes about visiting Healers and Doctors followed. All just a long record of pain and frustration; until another date with a star.

'July 31, 1993, Draco's first Accidental Magic'. It was the day he had finally became fully alive again.

Further over was the starred entry for his new Hogwarts letter, notes for his entry and sorting. One for his first detention earlier that year (with a star he had put on himself. Everything about the event, but the actual punishment, had been rewarding). Now, Draco put in a new entry, in the box for December 27, 1994: 'First Adult Full Family Dinner. Everybody wonderful.' Yes, it deserved a star.

February 23, 1995

Picking at a scab neurotically, probing with your tongue where a tooth hadn't been regrown yet; there are some basically irritating things you just can't help doing. For Draco Malfoy it was, lately, visiting the seventh floor of the Castle, heading left from the main staircase, and going past the tapestry of a wizard and Trolls doing ballet. He didn't know why he was called to go up there; it didn't have a window with a good view and the tapestry was mediocre compared to some of the things Draco knew were back at his home. To make some sort of use of the occasional compulsion, he'd taken to going up the staircases at a run, so he could at least say to himself it was good exercise. The location was infrequently enough used that at least no one ever questioned him about what he was doing in such a hurry.

That's why he was surprised at finding someone pacing back and forth at his usual useless spot, and muttering something in an increasingly angry tone. Evidently another aficionado of the dark, obscure, and dull. Or else an aficionado of Troll ballet that was frustrated that there wasn't any scheduling information on the tapestry. But that would have been… hilarious. And Draco never had much in the way of happy thoughts when he came up this way.

The boy sounded funny though, or at least Draco thought so until he got closer and realized the angry words were in French. Luckily, Mother had insisted that her son learn the language of the Malfoys' long-ago homeland, and also the international language of Wizarding diplomacy. Draco was about to use that same language to offer directions to this obviously lost visitor who had come to see the next trial of the Tournament when the Door appeared.

'Door', because "door" would simply did not do to convey the high-arched, double-valved, iron-bound and decorated dark, oaken thing. It creaked open, invitingly, just a little. Friendly-like. Draco took a sensible step backward. The stranger gave a grunt of pleasure and reached forth a hand to open the portal fully.

Slightly forgetting himself (he used English in speaking to the unexpected visitor) Draco called out.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you!"

Uncomfortably quick, the stranger turned, wand out and actually glowing.

"Why not?" he rasped out, also in English.

"It's idiotic to just charge off into a place you've never seen before? That suddenly appears when you don't expect it, and if something happens nobody will ever know to come and collect your bones for decent burial?" Draco asked in his most reasonable tones. It was obvious that someone here had to lower the tension level.

The other laughed. "Yes, therefore I am the luckiest man alive who hasn't taken a potion, for here you are, ready and able to accompany me and provide any needed assistance or serve as a distraction, as the case may be! Me? I am Henri Delacour, a fortunate guest at your wonderful castle, and, as you can tell, a hunter of the hidden and obscure."

"Draco Malfoy here. Safe and sane, voice of common sense and decent caution. And someone who can honestly tell you that it is certainly not safe to just rush into a room in Hogwarts, jump blindly onto a stairwell, or to trust the candies the Weasley twins give out. Especially the last."

"So I have been, warned, before. By someone whom I trust implicitly.

"Mr. Malfoy, I appreciate your concern, your rational apprehension, and your great courtesy. In fact, upon reflection I have come to agree. Perhaps you might do me the further kindness of going and requesting someone from one of the more enterprising Houses of Hogwarts, perhaps Mr. Longbottom, whom I have come to know of as a man of energy and decision, to accompany me? I have no doubts, after seeing the Hufflepuff badge on your robes, that you would perform that mundane task with great relish. I will stay here to make sure the door does not seal and conceal itself again."

His face growing red, and feeling himself get hot, Draco snarled out, "Lead on, you weaseling bastard. And you're not as subtle as you think you are, either."

Delacour merely smiled wider, and opened up the door completely.

It was a cavernous place; dusty, dim lit at the entrance, and dingier as it receded into the distance. Piles of things were stacked up with pathways between them, with a number of significantly larger ones as isolated islands. Mounds of rags, taller than Hagrid. A nested collection of chamber pots, many cracked, but at least the only odor of the place was that of dust and neglect. Draco's usual feeling of depression and apprehension were stronger now than he had ever had in the corridor outside. Lovely.

Delacour was slowly twisting his head back and forth, his eyes wide and his wand up to a guard position. Draco took that as a hint that he should take his own advice, and drew his wand. He prepared himself mentally to use one of the more aggressive spells Uncle Sirius had been teaching him over the summer: _Depulso_, the banishing charm.

The empty tooth-socket feeling, the 'there's something on the tip of my tongue' feeling, became stronger. His gaze was inevitably drawn to a crude statue, with a far from crude piece of jewelry perched on its head. The silver of its webbed structure was tarnished, but the gems set into it, especially the huge sapphire at the center of the two arching wings, were… pulsing with power.

There wasn't any doubt of it. Power was radiating from the tiara. He'd never seen it before, and yet Draco knew everything important about it. Strength, knowledge, betrayal, evil. He had not a bit of doubt, and his mind began to pull up the Sectumsempra cutting curse Professor Snape had shown him. At this range, at something unmoving… he should be able to hit it. Inside of his mind some part of him he didn't really notice was saying "Never again! Never!"

"I do not think there is anyone else here, Mr. Malfoy. You need not growl so threateningly… ah, I see; you also have had some knowledge of His works, I think."

"Huh? Delacour, I don't understand you. I've never seen anything like it before, but that thing is just wrong. We should break it, right now. Whose works? You've seen other things like that?"

"Yes. And as you said, they are all wrong."

Rather than pick the crown up directly, Delacour Transfigured one of the many foxed and dog-eared books piled up in stacks into a nondescript box. As he was doing that, Draco, so as not to let the honour of the school down, gently spelled the artifact through the air and plopped it down into the cardboard container, just as Delacour had finished it decorated to his pleasing.

"I'll escort you to the Headmistress's Office, if you'd like," Draco said.

Delacour replied: "That would be most kind. I prefer not to have this on hand for too long, and this place is something of a rat's maze."

"Well, we have no trouble remembering our way around!"

Delacour began a standard Shrinking Spell onto the box, only to have it ripped apart as the contained object refused to allow itself to be affected.

Draco sniggered, at the French boy's expression. "I expect that wasn't supposed to happen."

"As you said, Mr. Malfoy: it is wrong. I wonder… as we go to Headmistress McGonagall's office, would it be too much for you to fantasize that we are escorting a cursed object to our headquarters to be disposed of, and that to avoid being intercepted and relieved of it you are prepared to act, vigerously."

Draco smiled, chuckled, and replied, "I've always wanted to play that sort of game. Sectumsempra!" And with that he shattered a pile of chipped pottery with a slashing wand-stroke.

"Badgers are tough customers, aren't they, Mr. Malfoy?"

The tiara was suitably packaged (in a non-shrunken box), and they cautiously went downward and into the more populous areas of the castle. Delacour was holding the box under his arm with one hand around his wand, strolling with great nonchalance. Malfoy was next to him, chatting in a slightly daft manner as he couldn't seem to concentrate, what with trying to pierce each shadow they passed with his gaze to see if a menace was concealed. Both were relieved when they reached the Sanctum Sanctorum without incident.

While Delacour argued with increasing frustration (finally losing his English completely) with the gargoyle guarding the Head Mistresses' office (where apparently a pre-event meeting was going on among the Top Brass involved in the Tournament), Draco kept his back to a wall, and scanned up and down the corridor to make sure that their run of good luck wasn't interrupted. After several minutes of futile efforts on Delacour's part, Draco got an inspiration.

"Follow me!" he said, and took off along a well-remembered route downstairs toward the Hufflepuff basement. At the bottom he turned left instead of right, and caressing a portion of a large still-life of a bowl of fruit, led Henri Delacour into the Hogwarts Castle Kitchens.

"This is hardly the time for a snack!" Delacour barked out.

"An army marches on its legs; a late-night meeting advances on its coffee," Draco said.

As Draco waved over and began to talk to one of the House-elves working the smaller night shift, Delacour shook his head. "No, no. It is 'An army marches on its stomach!' That is the phrase!"

Draco looked up from a note he was scribbling, and protested: "How can anyone march on their own stomach. And if someone else does, that's pretty weird. It must be 'Marches on its legs…' only thing that makes sense. You go to Beauxbatons?" At Delacour's nod, Draco walked over to a silver serving tray loaded with the paraphernalia needed to accommodate a bit of a late night snack and a cup of Kona blend, if one were a nine foot plus tall lady, and slipped the note next to an oversized mug shaped like a porcelain demitasse cup.

"I've overheard Father say that McGonagall prefers to use her own stash of **Ogden's** for after dinner meetings; complains that coffee keeps her awake. So to get a message in, we have to go through someone who'll use the Kitchen's enchanted coffee pots. From the size of the cup, I expect it's for your Headmistress?"

Delacour nodded.

"Good," Draco said. "That Karkaroff fellow… something's off about him.

"Elf, please deliver this fresh pot to the meeting in the Headmistress's Office. Make sure Madame…"

"Maxime."

"Maxime gets the note, and no one else. Thank you; that will be all."

Only very slightly sooner said than done.

"Mother always says, it never hurts to be polite." A thoughtful look passed over Draco's face.

"And the Miss Delacour who is competing tomorrow…?"

"Is my dear, older sister, Fleur.

"You have displayed considerable finesse, Mr. Malfoy. My congratulations. I had become completely caught up in the moment, and lost sight of my objectives. A great flaw of mine, and I fear far from the only one."

Though they talked for over a half-hour after the House-elf returned with assurances that the errand had been completed, only one thing from that period really struck a note with Draco. After he asked, hesitantly, exactly what they really had in the box, Delacour cocked his head a bit, was silent for a second, and then smiled as he remembered the exact right thing to say.

"Mr. Malfoy, what we have brought with us is called 'Evil In A Can'."

The few House-elves on duty, with their usual preternaturally sharp hearing, kept as great a distance as they could from the two boys and their package after that, until the two Headmistresses, sans Karkaroff, appeared in the Kitchen Floo fireplace and escorted their students to McGonagall's office.

February 24, 1995

The few who were keeping track during that hectic day noticed bemusedly that Hufflepuff had somehow accumulated a hundred and fifty points the evening before. There was no explanation for it at breakfast; just that the total was there, and not even Professor Snape protested the great leap forward for the 'Puff total that left his Snakes in second place in the standings.

Draco was in the Great Hall, with the rest of the students, watching the Underwater Rescue Contest on the series of large mirrors that had been set up. Each was mated with one that was either affixed to a contestant, overseeing the whole Black Lake the contest was being held in, or keeping an eye on where the Treasures (a different one for each school) was being guarded by merfolk. What one saw, the other showed.

Draco had heard a rumor that someone in the Ministry had wanted to take a hostage from each of the Champions and put them down there to be rescued. Honestly, not even the Ministry would be that stupid.

Due to the first Contest, Miss Delacour was first in the water, using a Bubblehead Charm. Instead of the minimalist suit that so many had wanted to see her wear, she was covered in some sort of completely covering black thing. It was skin-tight, though. Those who wanted eye-candy had to be content with watching Cedric Diggory (a 'Puff!) in something called a 'Speedo' his father had got for him from some secret source (Bubblehead Charm also), and Krum, who basically wore an elastic band to keep his wand in place. And damn near nothing else. The reaction from the drooling girls when he Transfigured half his body into that of a shark was priceless!

Despite Delacour's head-start, it was Krum who took home the honours this time. Still, the way things were being handicapped, for the last Contest there wouldn't be very much of any advantage for anyone.

That evening, as Draco sat in an overstuffed chair reading and preparing for another of Professor Smith's quizzes, he overheard a few comments:

"Do you think it's about his family, the way the Frenchies came over to talk to Malfoy after the Contest?"

"Nah, Longbottom was with them; those two don't stand on their titles with anybody. Draco's all right, just a regular fella, like Neville is."

"If they keep the Triwizard up, who do you think will be going for us in the next one?"

And the conversation drifted off in other directions. But Draco couldn't help but feel a little smug. He was a regular fella, like Neville. He had got along with the Delacours, all of them, even the little girl. He felt at home, here in the Hufflepuff Commons. He decided; he liked being Draco Malfoy.


	5. La Mano Sinistra

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Mosaic: Chapter 5: La Mano Sinistra

By Larry Huss

September 2, 1985

The newly appointed History of Magic Professor looked into the mirror, and saw only a clean-shaven face and shiny dome. He grinned ruefully, and shook his head. Ever after three years his lack of a beard made him a stranger to himself. Luckily enough, he mused, it made him a stranger to almost everyone else, also.

He opened the bottle dear Severus had sent, poured the lotion into his hand, and worked the penetrating essences into his face and neck. No time for sloppiness now… every hint of a wattle or crease his hundred and more years had attracted had to be thoroughly treated and massaged away. Anything less and his hairy sacrifice would all end up being in vain.

At that thought he snorted. Sacrifices! Until he had given them up he hadn't realized how great a burden on his true business they had been. Lord High This, and Grand Exalted That! Secretary of learned societies, and guest of honour of all those Parades and Fetes and bun-fights. And most of all, being the final judge and political-fixer-in-chief for British Wizardry. He was well shut of it all.

What was it the Literary Doctor had said? Grandfather had known him, a little, in his youth. Ah, yes. "Knowing you're to be hanged in the morning concentrates the mind something grand." Or something like that.

Sacrifices! Every office deserted, every self-imposed 'duty' removed had been another weight taken off of his shoulders, a distraction no longer bellowing in his ears. The greatest 'sacrifice,' and the one most joyfully abandoned, had been his reputation. He hadn't realized how much that lie had dragged at him. It had kept him from his real work in life… atonement by works.

Atonement for his cowardness, his arrogance, his selfishness. Atonement, too long delayed, for his murders.

Now, for the second time in his life, he would begin again as a Hogwarts pedagogue. This time free of that gnawing worm, ambition.

Looking over at the parchment and book covered desk he gave a small, grunting grimace. One thing his new life in Academia hadn't given him was a relief from work itself. Letting Binns run so many years on his unvarying rails had allowed all the schools historical resources to not only become dated, but often enough, disintegrating. Even those things not greasy-fingered to illegibility by generations of students trying to write their essays at the luncheon table before going to class… and getting butter on the books they were cribbing from… had often been dealt deadly blows by the attentions of magically-augmented bookworms and burrowing beetles. There were even a few prime texts that over the years had evidently been cut up and used as the printed origins for prank labels, or perhaps even ransom notes. Librarian Pince had a lot to answer for also, letting the collection go so long without weeding and fertilization. No one expected the dead (Binns) to be very dynamic, but the keeping of the Library was an important duty that had, in this subject at least, been sorely neglected!

And there he was, again, he realized. Taking over, sending his minions hither and yon, acting so very Dumbledore, not Smith-like at all. He'd have a word with Minerva about seeing if he could make some suggestions on collection development. It would be better that way. It wasn't as if he had anything but the first month's worth of lessons planned out anyway; he'd have to catch up on the scholarly literature in the field. And with that he looked over into a corner of History Professor's Quarters, where there was a pile of _Annals of the British Magical Historical Society Quarterly Report, _evidently untouched since their deliveries over the last fifty or more years. The last few years' worth of those should have plenty of recommendation on things, and the others would make an endless supply of raw material for paper airplanes, origami animations, and general kindling for the next decade or so. Binns was just another thing at old Hogwarts that old Dippet and old Dumbledore should have been paying attention to. Headmistress McGonagall had already started to sweep with a fresh broom. Binns gone (despite his descendents protests at the loss of the salary they had been receiving for his labors), and Peeves was on a probation he was unlikely to survive as an employed poltergeist.

But none of that were his problems any more. Let the Headmistress decide how to deal with Peeves and all the rest of it. He was now free to pursue his interests. Oscar Smith was a mere, humble, teacher of British Wizarding History. If the Headmistress was observed to be listening to his advice more than seemed reasonable… it would mean that they weren't being nearly discreet enough. And no one should know that she had promised him three Boons. Less than Wishes (which, outside of fairytales, no mortal could guarantee to perform), but enough to let him feel secure that if something absolutely, positively, had to be done, she'd allow it to happen, even against her better judgment. Sometimes it was just easier to deal with people of strict principle; you could rely on them to just groan and carry on. Now all he had to do was avoid thinking they were a set of carte blanche permissions to use for mere convenience.

And now it was time to go down for breakfast; how time flies when you're feeling free.

October 31, 1991

The History Professor looked around at the shattered mirrors, stalls, and fixtures of the bathroom and turned pale with rage. How could he have let himself get so complacent? How could they all have failed the girl, the school, so badly?

Between Severus, Minerva with her portrait gallery of snoops, and his own surveillance, they had thought that they had boxed Quirrell in so well! They had all been too innocent, never imagining a teacher would casually risk… no… condemn an innocent child to death for the sake of a short term distraction.

Now the child… might survive. Might survive. How to tell her parents? How to tell her? Ifshe survived.

'Just paying off an old favor to a patron and benefactor of the school, nothing was ever meant to harm you. The whole treasure in the School basement, monster in the castle, obstacle course, all of it… just meant to distract attention while Nicholas and Perenelle slipped out the back door, so to speak. We should have stopped it the instant we heard about the robbery. We should have…"

Should have and if; time to eliminate them from his vocabulary. Time to take responsibility. Minerva had asked for his advice when she had received Flamel's request; he'd given it. Severus had told of his suspicions that Quirrell wasn't just making a fashion statement when he'd came back with his turban from a trip to Albania. But Professor Smith and his ego had overruled their official superior. Well, score one for paranoia and feminine intuition.

But, but… they'd had to be sure. More observation was needed to done before a course of action was decided. That an expert in Troll communications would faint after meeting one, but only after spending minutes getting to where he could panic a room full of children, was otherwise inexplicable. What exactly (beyond going for gold without limit) was he trying to do? Was Quirrell in collusion with some group that should be exposed? Finding out before reporting them to the Aurors was essential.

They'd have to let Quirrell run a bit longer. But only a bit. Set a firm time limit, and no excuses to extend it.

This would be Minerva's call, though. He and Severus would just have to be her loyal supporters in this. He hoped he could hold to his resolution to save up his limited supply of influence over her for a sufficiently grave situation. It was hard to hold back when he thought of that poor, bright, girl.

November 17, 1991

Oscar Smith, History of Magic Professor, pulled back a little on the leash, and the boarhound at the other end of it looked back over its shoulder with a look of innocence betrayed. There it was, eagerly following the scent of vanilla extract that Professor Snape had managed to get onto the robe of their quarry, and now the man on the control end of the leather strap was holding it back to a sedate walk. Between the pace the man was setting (odd how he smelled exactly like a different man had once smelled), and the spell to be silent that had been set on him, Fang was certain that he was the only one there who had the right idea about how to set about a proper hunt. Perhaps he was right.

There wasn't a lot of joy in the bunch that were following the oversized dog. The Transfiguration Professor was wondering why the Headmistress had sent him out on this wild goose chase of a freezing evening, with instruction to obey the orders of the History teacher in her absence, even if meant that extreme measures might be needed. That was hardly reassuring, his position in the school was uncertain enough as it was. If something 'extreme' ended up happening, his being a werewolf was unlikely to be considered a mitigating circumstance when the time to allocate blame came up. Having Potions Professor Severus Snape just behind him, darkly glowering and not exactly his best of friends at the best of times, didn't make things better.

Smith pulled the dog to a halt for a second and turned to give them a sort of final briefing.

"If you know anything about Unicorns it's that under the ever so ethereal glittering beauty they are capable of putting a foot or so of their horn through the hide of a Troll, and then twirl around and kick its brains out. Anything capable of bringing down two, if not three, within the last few months must be exceptionally dangerous. So don't let Professor Quirrell's stuttering, or his act of befuddlement fool you; he is dangerous and highly skilled, otherwise he would never have been hired for the Defense position in the first place.

"No heroics, I will engage first and you will each move to a flank to cut off his options. Attempt to subdue him will all your energies… half-measures are more dangerous to you than they are to him."

Professor Snape drawled out his question: "Subdue?"

After a long moment of tormented internal conflict Smith replied: "Do what you must, short of Unforgiveables."

"Yes, that sounds more like it!" the Slytherin Headmaster exulted.

Lupin just nodded his head; he hoped desperately that the Headmistress was correct about what was behind the strange and dangerous events of the last year. If something happened, if the wheels came off of their little expedition… it was more likely that the werewolf would be left holding the bag than the Headmistress's best friend, and her obvious protégé.

Fang, properly disciplined to keep his pace down, and his huge bellowing voice under control, led them at a brisk walk deeper into the Forest, past occasional trees with broken webs, fluttering in the cold night breezes, of neglected and abandoned Acromantula origin. Too soon for anyone's comfort the four reached a small clearing where a darker-than-black figure crouched over the fading silver-glinting corpse of a Unicorn, while a vast and spreading stain, black in the feeble light, covered much of the magical beast's neck and forequarters.

"Spread!" Smith barked out, gesturing wide with his arms, and both Snape and Lupin dashed to the right. After a half-dozen steps they both stopped and looked at each other. Before they got into a childish quibble about who was to go in which the direction Lupin turned back, and resumed moving. Cursing, Snape doubled back to the left, as Smith engaged in an exchange of spells with someone who wasn't quite using Quirrell's voice, and certainly not using his stutter.

Trying to bark at the top of his lungs, Fang pulled free from Smith and rushed to the rear, almost entangling Lupin with his flapping leash. Lupin's accurate and swift Expelliramus disarmer was casually knocked out of the air by Quirrell's bare hand, without even the necessity of a spoken spell. His Diffindo was just as easily handled by a fallen tree-branch that suddenly moved itself into the spell's path. Smith seemed to be the only one managing to keep up the suddenly cool and competent DADA professor… or it seemed that was the case until Snape rattled out some spell name that Lupin had never hear off, and Quirrell's blocking hand flew off at the wrist.

And even that didn't seem to be more than a minor inconvenience to the man, who hardly slowed his casting. Now, though, the words 'Avada Kedarva' were among those announcing what was being sent out in toward the trio.

"Who are you? Who the Hell are you?" demanded Snape in disbelief at their opponent's power and stamina.

For just a moment the man turned toward Snape, and his voice rang out in a mocking tone: "You really don't know who I am, dear Severus? Why, I'm-"

It was at that moment, when Quirrell was distracted in his vainglory, that Lupin's Bombarda Maxima slipped through some crack in the man's protective shields and exploded the upper half of his torso. The lower half of the body was tossed twenty paces or more, even outdistancing the spray of body fluids and fragments of bone and organs that had been pulverized.

"What did you have to do that for!" screamed Smith, turning to Lupin. "Now we'll not be able to enquire what he was doing here, or for what purpose!"

"Why, Professor… Smith…" said Snape, with the his full sarcastic voice in place. "Doesn't it ill behoove you to criticize someone who obeyed your every reasonable command, including not using any of the Unforgiveables, which were being sent our way in notable profusion? We mustn't be churlish, after all.

"I for one, Lupin, am actually glad that you finally decided to get serious about things, there at the end."

Smith ignored the byplay. He was staring at the half-corpse of Quirrell, lying well lit by the dozen flickering little fires that had been set by the side effects of the spells used in the last few minutes. Out of the mutilated torso a dark and poisonous-looking vapor was rising, coalescing into a vaguely human sized mass, and then drifting off into the dark and tangled woods.

Smith suddenly began rattling off spells that afterwards neither Snape nor Lupin (awkwardly conferring together, despite their past history) had ever heard before. All to no avail; the vapor silently slid into the obscuring vegetation, and was lost to view.

Calmed down, and perhaps (from his voice) somewhat exhausted, Smith apologized: "Yes, my fault, my fault. You and Severus did everything I asked of you. I have no right to complain, just… disappointment at my own lack of success."

He gave a little chuckle then: "We looked like a right bunch of clowns there, at the beginning, didn't we? Well, if it needs practice to make perfect, we have a very good excuse for tonight. Let us hope that we next perform our little drama it will be with more professionalism, if we ever get a chance for a return engagement."

In a few minutes they had gathered up as much of Quirrell as they could collect by the flickering light, and slowly and stiffly made their way out of the Forbidden Forest to the warmth, and light, and hot rum toddy that Headmistress McGonagall was no doubt holding ready for them.

April 3, 1993

Oscar Smith looked at the tempting little nugget of poison glittering in his hand. It might look like an unadorned gold ring, but Smith knew it was pure poison, none-the-less. The fruit of unending research; the result of years of laborious hiking, and many a damp trot through the woods and fens of Britain.

So tempting, to just slip it on a finger and become connected to the origins of his beloved school, and be vastly empowered by the dark spells that surrounded the little band like a net. In the end just the least bit _too_ tempting to dare.

Smith was certain that only Voldemort's soul and magic could survive so intimate a contact with the ring; in fact the way it was found had relied on the magical imprint that Voldemort had left in his ruined, once possessed body (used when playing at being Quirrell) allowing a seeking template to be made. Any hand but one possessed by its creature would release a string of curses that only someone like the vainglorious (and missing) Albus Dumbledore would dare. The much more modest Oscar Smith (coached… well, nagged… by Minerva McGonagall) had managed to avoid that particular error until an in-depth search into the artifact had revealed the danger.

Now all Professor Smith had to do was either quarter the Earth to locate any more Horcruxes, or improve the distance detection could be made at, and use Muggle triangulation to locate any others that were wandering the wide world 'round. Simple as cake if one was a good bit more talented than a History Professor needed to be, and had a school Headmistress that had finally housebroken you enough that you didn't do quite so many hare-brained things.

March 3, 1995

The professor was all snug in his robe and slippers, regretting only his role sustaining inability to enjoy a good pipe. It wasn't wise to indulge in private in a (minor) vice one disparaged in public. Still, though the years were (despite the best of magical medicine and disguise) years of internal exile and subterfuge they had hardly been without their rewards. Discovering three of Voldemort's relicts, and helping to dispose of the one Malfoy had turned in was hardly wasting time. And each new one discovered and destroyed aided the discovery of the next.

The trouble was in the last one that was the trickiest, and most morally confusing, to deal with.


End file.
